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IMAGE  EVALUATION 
TEST  TARGET  (MT-3) 


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Photographic 

Sciences 
Corporation 


23  WEST  MAIN  STREET 
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r 


CIHM/ICMH 

Microfiche 

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microfiches. 


Canadian  Institute  for  Historical  Microreproductions 


Institut  Canadian  de  microreproductions  hSstoriques 


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^ 


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empreinte. 

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dernidre  image  de  cheque  microfiche,  selon  le 
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illustrent  la  mdthode. 


errata 
to 


pelure, 
}n  d 


D 


32X 


1 

2 

3 

1 

2 

3 

4 

5 

6 

8NOWSUUEING  UP  THE  MOUNTAIN. 


:\ 


^RJORIE^S 


i 


n  \\ 


A^     ;)!AN    WINTER 


^  ^T.  i;^  OF  THE  NORTHERN  LIGHTS 


Br 


AoNES  MAil.K  MACTIAK 


4.    ■>..»     "■ 


BO.STC» 

n    LOTIIROr   '    ^M  FA  NY 


■n 


I 


-■)/■. . 


MARJORIE'S 
CANADIAN    WINTER 


A  STORY  OF  THE  NORTHERN  LIGHTS 


AGNES  MAULE  MACHAR 


Author  of 
^^   ''Stories  o^  New  Kkanck,"  etc 


A^ 


%^J 


y-^^iu^/^  '^ 


BOSTON 

D   LOTHROP  COMPANY 


OOPTBIQHT,  1892, 
BT 

D.  LoTHROP  CoMPAmr. 


TO   MY    KEVEUED    FRIEND 

Jloljn  (J^recnlcaf  TObittiet 

THIS    LITTLE    KOOK    IS    GKATEFULLY    INSCRIBED    IN 
HEART-FELT  RECOGNITION  OF    THE    INSPIRA- 
TION   OF    HIS    WRITINGS   AND 
HIS    LIFE 


"  Our  Friend,  our  Brotlier  and  our  Lord, 
What  may  Tliy  scj-vicc  be  ?  — 

Not  name,  not  form,  not  ritual  word, 
But  simply  following  Thee." 


CONTENTS. 


CHAI^TEU  I. 

A    NOVEMHEIl   EVKXlNc; 

CIIAITKK  II. 

SOME    DARK    DAYS 

•  •  • 

CHAPTER   III. 

A    NEW    DEPARTURE 

CIIAPTEU  IV. 

NORTHWARD  .... 

CHAPTER   V. 

IN    MONTREAL  .... 

CHAPTER  VI. 

NEW    FRIENDS  .... 

CHAPTER   VII. 

THE    professor's    STORV 

CHAPTER   VIII. 

A   SNOW-SHOE    TRAMP    . 


9 

29 

48 

62 

78 

93 

115 

145 


CONTENTS. 


CHAPTER  IX. 

HKVEN    SCENES    FHOM    CHRISTMAS    PAST 

CIIAPTEIl  X. 

CHRISTMAS    PRESENT       .  .  . 

CHAPTER  XI. 

FERE    LE    JEUNE's    CHRISTMAS 

CHAPTER  XII. 

A    NEW    year's    party 

CHAPTER   XIII. 
treasures  op  the  snow  and  ice     . 

CHAPTER  XIV. 

carnival    (JLORIES  .... 

CHAPTER  XV. 

PERE    DE    NOUE       

CHAPTER  XVI. 

A    NEW    ACQUAINTANCE 

CHAPTER  XVII. 

ANXIOUS    DAYS 

CHAPTER  XVIII. 

OPENING    BLOSSOMS  .... 

CHAPTER  XIX. 

EASTWARD,    IlO  ! 

CHAPTER  XX. 

AMONG    THE    HILLS  .... 


lOG 
194 

207 

228 
242 
256 
285 
300 
317 
334 
353 
368 


MARJORIE'S  CANADIAN  WINTER, 


CHAPTER  I. 


A  NOVEMBER   EVENING. 


Marjorie  Fleming  sat  curled  up  in  a  large  chair 
by  the  window  of  the  dim  fire-lighted  room,  looking 
out  into  the  misty  grayness  of  the  rainy  November 
evening,  with  wistful,  watchful  eyes  that  yet  seemed 
scarcely  to  see  what  was  before  them. 

The  train  that  generally  brought  her  father  from 
the  city  was  not  quite  due,  but  on  this  dull  rainy  day 
the  dusk  had  fallen  very  early,  and  Marjorie,  always 
a  dreamer,  loved  to  sit  quiet  in  the  "  gloaming,"  as 
her  father  used  to  call  the  twilight,  and  give  full  sway 
to  the  fancies  and  air-castles  that  haunted  her  brain. 
The  fitful  light  of  tlic  low  fire  in  the  grate  scarcely 
interfered  with  the  view  of  the  outer  world,  such  as 
it  was :  of  the  'evergreens,  heavy  with  crystal  rain- 
drops, the  bare  boughs  of  the  other  trees,  and,  beyond 
that,  the  street-lights,  faintly  outlining  the  houses  and 

9 


"T 


10 


A    NOVEMBER    EVENING. 


gardens  on  the  other  side.  Marjorie,  as  she  sat  there, 
with  one  hand  on  the  head  of  her  little  terrier  Robin, 
scarcely  looked  her  age,  which  was  thirteen  —  a 
delightful  age  for  a  little  girl ;  full  of  opening  possi- 
bilities of  life,  and  thoughts,  of  which,  only  a  year  or 
two  ago,  she  had  scarcely  dreamed ;  an  age  not  yet 
shorn  of  the  privileges  of  childhood,  and  yet  beginning 
to  taste  of  the  privileges  of  "  grown-up  people ; ''  for 
now  her  father  and  his  friends  would  not  mind  occa- 
sionally taking  her  into  their  thoughtful  talks,  which, 
to  her,  seemed  so  delightful  and  so  profound. 

As  Marjorie  waited,  absorbed  iii  a  reverie,  her 
mind  had  been  roaming  amid  the  fair  scenes  of  last 
summer's  holiday  among  the  hills,  with  her  father  and 
her  dear  Aunt  Millie ;  and  latterly  with  the  stranger 
who  had  appeared  on  the  scene  so  unexpectedly  to  her, 
and  had  eventually  carried  off  her  beloved  auntie  to  a 
Southern  land  of  whose  "  orange  and  myrtle  "  Marjorie 
had  been  dreaming  ever  since.  The  bustle  and 
novelty  of  a  wedding  in  the  house  were  very  fresh  in 
her  mind,  and  she  still  felt  the  great  blank  left  by  the 
departure  of  the  bride,  whose  loss  to  her  father  Mar- 
jorie had  made  such  strong  resolves  to  supply  by  her 
own  devotion  to  his  care  and  comfort.  These  resolves 
had  been  fulfilled  as  well,  perhaps,  as  could  be  ex- 
pected from  a  girl  of  thirteen,  whose  natural  affinities 
were  more  with  books  and  study  than  with  housewifely 
cares ;    but  their  faithful   maid    Rebecca,  trained  so 


A    NOVEMBER    EVENING. 


11 


carefully  by  "  Miss  Millie,"   regarded  the  somewhat 
superfluous  efforts  of  her  young  mistress  with  some- 
thing of  the  same  good-humored  disapprobation  with 
which  the  experienced  beaver  is  said  to  view  the  crude 
attempts  of  the  young  beginners  at  dam-building.      So 
household  cares  had  not  weighed  heavily  on  Marjorie 
yet,  and  the  quiet  life  alone  with  her  father  had  been 
much  pleasanter  and  less  lonely  than  she  could  have 
believed.     For,  though  he  was  all  day  absent  at  the 
oftice  in  the  city,  Marjorie  had  her  school  and  her  books, 
and  the  walks  in  the  bright  October  days  with  school 
friends.     And  then  there  were  the  long  cosey  evenings 
with  her  father,  when  Marjorie  learned  her  lessons  at 
his    writing-table,    while   he    sat  over  his   books   and 
papers  ;  yet  not  too  much  absorbed  for  an  occasional 
talk   with   Marjorie,   over   a   difficult   passage   in   her 
French  or  German,  or  an  allusion  in  a  book  which  she 
did  not  understand.     Sometimes,  too,  he  would  read 
to  her  a  manuscript  poem  or  sketch,  to  see  how  she 
liked  it ;  for  Mr.   Fleming  was  engaged  in  editorial 
work  in  connection  with  a  New  York  periodical,  and 
often    brought  manuscripts  home  from   the  office    to 
examine  at  leisure.     These  were  great  treats  to  Mar- 
jorie.    It  seemed  to  her  charming  to  hear  a  story  or  a 
poem  fresh  from  the  author's  hand,  before  it  had  even 
gone  to  the  printer  ;  and  she  looked  with  a  curious 
feeling  of  reverence  at  the  sheets  covered  with  written 
characters,  that  seemed  about  to  fly  on  invisible  wings 


12 


A    NOVEMBER    EVENING. 


to  all  parts  of  the  land.  As  for  her  father,  Marjorie 
tliouirht  that  there  was  no  one  in  all  the  world  so  clever 
and  so  good ;  and  his  verdict  she  took  as  a  finality  on 
every  possible  subject.  Only  one  person  stood  yet 
hiuher  in  her  thonuht:  and  that  was  the  dear  mother 
who  now  seemed  to  her  like  a  lovely  angel  vision,  as 
she  imagined  her  in  fragile  delicacy  and  gentle 
sweetness,  and  knew,  too,  how  her  father  had  mourned 
her,  and  how  he  revered  her  memory  as  that  of  one 
far  better  than  liimself.  All  that  that  memory  had 
been  to  him  Marjorie  could  as  yet  only  very  faintly 
appreciate,  but  she  knew  or  divined  enough  to  give  a 
loving  but  profound  veneration  to  the  feeling  with 
which  she  looked  at  the  picture  over  the  mantel-piece, 
or  the  still  sweeter  smaller  one  that  stood  on  her 
father's  dressing-table.  Marjorie  had  learned  by  heart 
Cowper's  beautiful  lines  to  his  mother's  picture,  and 
she  sometimes  said  them  over  softly  to  herself  as  she 
sat  alone,  looking  at  the  picture  by  the  firelight. 

She  was  recalled  now  from  the  mazy  labyrinth  of 
rambling  thoughts  by  Robin's  sharp  little  bark  and 
whine,  as  an  umbrella  with  a  waterproof  coat  under  it 
swiftly  approached  the  gate  and  turned  in.  It  was  a 
race  between  the  dog  and  Marjorie,  which  •  of  them 
should  be  at  the  door  first.  Robin  was,  but  had  to 
wait  till  Marjorie  opened  the  door  for  his  wild  rush 
upon  his  master,  while  she  threw  her  arms  about  him, 
wet  as  he  was,  for  the  greeting  kiss. 


A    NOVEMHEK    EVENING. 


13 


"Oh  !  how  wet  you  are,  father  dear,"  she  exclaimed. 
"  Such  an  evening  !  " 

"  Yes ;  it  makes  me  glad  to  be  back  to  home  and 
you,  Pet  Marjorie,"  he  said,  looking  down  at  her  with 
bright  dark  eyes  very  like  her  own,  while  she  tugged 
away  at  the  wet  coat,  in  her  eagerness  to  relieve  him 
of  it.  He  shivered  slightly  as  he  sat  down  in  the 
easy-chair  which  Marjorie  pulled  in  front  of  the  fire, 
while  she  broke  up  the  coal  till  the  bright  glow  of  the 
firelight  filled  the  cosey  apartment  —  half-study,  half- 
sitting-room —  where  a  small  table  was  laid  for  a 
tete-a-tete    dinner.      Marjorie    looked  at  him  a  little 

anxiously. 

"  Ah !  now  you've  taken  cold  again,"  she  said. 

"  I've  taken  a  slight  chill,"  he  said,  a  little  wearily. 
"  It's  scarcely  possible  to  help  it  in  this  weather  — 
but  we  shall  be  all  right  when  we've  had  our  dinner, 
eh,  Robin  ?  "  as  the  little  dog,  not  meaning  to  be 
overlooked,  jumped  up  and  licked  his  hands. 

"  But  you  look  so  tired,  papa,"  said  Marjorie  again, 
using  the  pet  name  by  which  she  did  not  usually  call 
him. 

"  I've  been  out  a  good  deal  in  the  rain,  and  among 
saddening  scenes,  dear,"  he  said. 

"  Oh !  why  did  you  go  out  so  nmch  lo-day  ?  " 

"  I  had  made  an  appointment  with  an  English 
friend  to  show  him  how  some  of  our  poor  people  live, 
and,  Marjorie  dear,  it  made  me  heart-sick  to  see  the 


14 


A    NOVEMBEK   EVENING. 


I 

I 


f 


misery  and  wretchedness,  the  dingy,  squalid,  crowded 
rooms  —  the  half -starved  women  and  children.  It 
makes  me  feel  as  if  it  were  wrong  to  be  so  comfort- 
able," he  added,  looking  round  the  room  with  its  books 
and  pictures.  "  And  then,  to  pass  those  great  luxuri- 
ous mansions,  where  they  don't  know  what  to  do  with 
their  overflowing  wealth,  and  where  they  waste  on 
utter  superfluities  enough  to  feed  all  those  poor  starv- 
ing babies.  Ah!  it's  pitiful.  It  makes  me  wonder 
whether  this  is  a  Christian  country." 

Marjorie  looked  perplexed.  "But  don't  those  rich 
people  go  to  church  ?  "  she  asked.  "  And,  surely,  if 
they  knew  people  were  starving,  they  would  give  them 
bread?  " 

"  It's  a  queer  world.  Pet  Marjorie,"  he  said.  "  I 
suspect  a  good  many  of  us  are  half-heathen  yet." 

Marjorie  said  nothing,  but  looked  more  puzzled 
still.  She  had  heard  a  great  deal  about  the  heathen 
in  foreign  countries,  but  how  there  should  be  heathen, 
or  even  half-heathen  people  in  a  city  like  New  York, 
and  especially  among  the  rich  and  educated  portion  of 
it,  was  not  so  clear.  No  doubt  they  v^ere  not  all  as 
charitable  as  they  should  be  —  but  how  did  that  make 
them  "  half -heath  en  "  ?  But  she  was  accustomed  to 
hear  her  father  say  a  good  many  things  that  did  not 
seem  very  clear  at  first,  and  she  liked  to  try  and  think 
out  their  meaning  for  herself. 

"  I  saw  an    angel  to-day,"  Mr.  Fleming  went  on 


A    NOVEMBER    EVENING. 


15 


half-musingly,  then,  smiling  at  Marjorie's  surprised 
look,  he  added:  "But  I  mustn't  begin  to  talk  about 
it  now,  or  we'U  keep  dinner  waiting,  and  I  see  Kebecca 
is  bringing  it  in.  I'll  tell  you  about  it  in  our  '  holiday 
half-hour,'  by  and  by.     It'll  be  a  conundrum  till  then." 

It  was  rather  a  "  way  "  Mr.  Fleming  had,  to  mys- 
tify a  little  his  "  Pet  Marjorie,"  as  he  liked  to  call  her, 
after  the  wonderful  little  girl  who  was  such  a  pet  of 
Sir  Walter  Scott,  as  Dr.  John  Brown  has  so  prettily 
told  us.  And  it  had  the  effect  of  making  her  wonder- 
fully interested  in  the  explanation,  when  it  was  not 
possible  for  her  to  think  this  out  for  herself.  And 
the  "  holiday  half-hour  "  was  the  last  half-hour  before 
Marjorie's  bedtime,  when  Mr.  Fleming  was  wont  to 
make  a  break  in  his  busy  evening,  and  give  himself 
up  to  a  rambling  talk  with  Marjorie  on  matters  great 
or  small,  as  the  case  might  be.  For  this  half-hour 
Marjorie  used  to  save  up  all  the  problems  and  dilficid- 
ties  that  came  into  her  busy  mind  during  the  day ;  and 
then,  too,  he  would  read  to  her  little  things  that  he 
thought  she  would  like  —  generally  from  his  office 
papers.  It  was  no  wonder  that  she  looked  forward  to 
it  as  the  pleasantest  bit  of  the  day,  and  that  it  left 
happy  and  peaceful  thoughts  to  go  to  sleep  with. 

They  had  their  quiet  dinner  together,  while  the 
rather  dignified  and  matronly  Rebecca  waited  on  both, 
with  a  kind  of  maternal  care.  Then  the  table  was 
cleared  and  drawn  nearer  the  fire,  while  Mr.  Fleming 


16 


A    NOVEMBER    EVENING. 


sorted  out  on  it  his  books  and  papers.  Among  them 
were  two  or  three  new  books  for  review.  Marjorie 
looked  at  the  titles,  and  dipped  into  the  contents  a  lit- 
tle, but  finally  decided  that  they  "  were  not  as  nice  as 
they  looked."  Then,  instead  of  producing  granmiars 
and  exercise  books  as  usual,  she  opened  her  little  work- 
box,  and  unfolded,  with  an  air  of  some  importance,  a 
large  bundle  of  flannel. 

"  Nettie  Lane  and  I  were  at  the  Dorcas  Meeting  to- 
day," she  explained,  in  reply  to  her  father's  surprised 
and  inquiring  glance.  "  Nettie  said  I  ought  to  take 
more  interest  in  doing  good  to  poor  people,  as  Miss 
Chauncey  always  tells  us  we  should.  So  she  took  me, 
because  her  mother  is  president,  and  she  wants  to  'en- 
list the  interest  of  all  the  little  girls,'  "  quoted  Marjorie 
with  satisfaction  to  herself.  "  And  I  took  this  home  to 
make  up  before  Christmas  Day." 

"  All  right,  my  child,"  said  her  father,  smiling. 
"  Only  try  to  do  whatever  yoii  undertake.  If  it  should 
turn  out  as  my  Christmas  slippers  did  last  Christmas, 
I'm  afraid  the  poor  people  will  have  to  wait  a  while, 
unless  Rebecca  takes  pity  on  you." 

"  O,  papa  !  But  then  there  was  so  much  work  on 
them,  and  you  didn't  need  them  then  —  just  exactly. 
And  I'm  sure  they  look  very  nice  now,"  she  added, 
surveying  with  pride  the  slippered  feet,  adorned  with 
two  brown  dogs'  heads,  which  rested  on  the  fender, 
while  her  father  looked  through  the  evening  papers. 


A   NOVEMBER   EVENING. 


17 


"  Yes,  dear,  they  do,  and  I'm  very  proud  of  them," 
he  said,  leaning  over  to  stroke  her  soft  dark  hair  with 
a  loving  hand ;  "  all  the  more  that  I  know  you  are  no 
Penelope." 

''Oh!  poor  Penelope  had  nothing  better  to  do,"  said 
Marjorie.  "  I  don't  suppose  she  had  French  or  Ger- 
man to  learn,  or  any  new  books  to  read." 

"Happy  woman!"  sighed  Mr.  Fleming.  '*0f 
making  many  books  there  is  no  end."  And  he  looked 
a.t  the  pile  of  books  and  MSS.  he  had  just  laid  on  the 
table. 

"  O,  father  !  have  you  any  stories  to  read  to  me  to- 
night ?  "  asked  Marjorie. 

"  I'll  see  by  and  by.  I  noticed  one  that  I  thought 
looked  as  if  you  would  like  it.  It's  called  '  The 
Story  of  the  Northern  Lights.'  But  now  I'm  going  to 
work  till  our  half-hour  comes,  and  then  I'll  give  my- 
self a  rest  —  and  you  a  reading." 

"  Well,  then,  father  dear,  I  think  I'll  put  my  sew- 
ing away,  and  do  my  lessons  for  to-morrow.  When 
you  are  ready  to  read  I  can  work  while  I  listen." 

Mr.  Fleming  smiled  a  little,  but  said  nothing.  The 
flannel  was  folded  up  with  a  rather  suspicious  alacrity, 
grammars  and  exercises  were  brought  out,  and  perfect 
silence  reigned,  broken  only  by  the  turning  of  leaves 
or  the  scratching  of  pens  ;  for  Marjorie  knew  that 
when  her  father  said  he  was  going  to  work,  he  did  not 
wish  to  be  disturbed  by  any  desultory  remarks,  aud 


18 


A   NOVEMBER    EVENING. 


thus  she  had  learned  a  lesson  often  difficult  for  women 
to  learn  —  that  there  is  "  a  time  to  keep  silence." 

"  Is  your  exercise  very  difficult  to-night,  Marjorie  ?  " 
asked  Mr.  Fleming,  after  a  long  interval,  during  which 
he  had  occasionally  noticed  long  pauses  of  Marjorie's 
pen,  with  what  seemed  to  be  periods  of  deep  abstrac- 
tion in  her  task. 

Marjorie  colored  deeply.      "Oh I  T  haven't  begun 
my  exercise  yet.     This  is  my  translation,"  she  said. 
"  And  do  you  find  it  so  difficult  to  make  out  ?  " 
"  O,  no  !  not  difficult  to  translate  ;  only  I  thought 
I  W(  lid  like  to  do  it,  you  see  it's  poetry,  and  so  "  — 

"  You  wanted  to  translate  it  into  verse  ? "  he 
continued. 

"  Yes  ;  I've  got  the  first  verse  done." 
"  Well,  let  me   see  how  you're  getting  on." 
He  took  the  sheet  of  paper  which  Marjorie  handed 
him  with  a  mingling  of  pride  and  nervousness,  and 
read  aloud : 

—  "  Know'st  thou  the  land  where  the  citron-trees  grow, 
Through  the  dark  leaves  the  bright  oranges  glow ; 
A  gentle  breeze  blows  from  the  soft  blue  sky, 
The  mild  myrtle  is  there,  and  the  laurel  high; 
Say,  dost  thou  know  it? 

There,  oh  there  — 
Let  me  go  with  thee,  Oh,  my  beloved,  there." 

"  Well,  it's  not  a  bad  translation  for  a  little  girl  to 
make,    Pet   Marjorie,"  he   said,    kissing   the    Hushed 


A    NOVEMBER   EVENING. 


19 


cheek.  "But  you  know  '  there's  a  time  for  everything.' 
Your  work  just  now  is  to  learn  German,  not  to  play 
at  translatinj;  it  —  half  by  guess.  You  should  keep 
such  things  for  your  playtime  —  not  waste  your  lesson 
time  on  them.  I  don't  in  the  least  object  to  your 
trying  what  you  can  do  in  this  way  at  proper  times  and 
seasons,  but  you  know  I  don't  wafit  you  to  get  into  a 
desultory  way  of  working.  It  is  a  besetting  sin  of 
temi)craments  like  yours  —  and  mine,"  he  added  with 
a  sigh. 

"•Yours,  father?"  said  Marjorie,  in  astonishment. 

"•  Yes,  dear ;  it  has  been  very  much  in  my  way,  and 
I  want  you  to  get  the  mastery  of  it  earlier  in  life  than 
I  did.  And  it  is  what  makes  half  our  women  so 
superficial." 

Marjorie  did  not  clearly  understand  what  this  word 
"  superficial "  meant ;  but  she  knew  it  had  a  good 
deal  of  connection  with  grammatical  accuracy  and 
mistakes  in  her  sums  and  exercises. 

'■'■  Well,  father  dear,"  she  said  resolutely,  "  I'll  try 
not  to  be  '  superficial '  and  '  desultory.'  And  so  I'll 
just  write  it  out  in  prose,  and  do  my  exercises." 

"  Yes,  only  try  to  finish  your  poetical  one  another 
time,  since  you  have  begun  it.  Though  you  are  rather 
young  yet  to  try  to  translate  Goethe.  But  I  don't 
wonder  that  Mignon's  song  attracted  you." 

The  exercises  were  finished  and  put  away,  and  the 
bundle  of  flannel  ostentatiously  taken  out,  before  Mr, 


rr" 


20 


A    NOVEMBER    EVENING. 


Fleming  at  last  pushed  away  his  papers,  with  a  wearier 
look  than  was  often  to  be  seen  on  his  expressive  face. 

"There  !  I  won't  work  any  more  to-niglit,"  he  said. 
"  I  don't  feel  up  to  it.  That  cold  damp  air  seems  in 
my  throat  still  —  and  those  wretched  places  —  I  can't 
call  them  homes  "  — 

"  But  the  angel  ?  "  asked  Marjorie  expectantly,  set- 
tling herself  on  her  favoi'ite  low  chair,  close  to  her 
father,  with   her  work  on  her  lap. 

"  Oh  I  the  angel  ?  well,  perhaps  most  people  wouldn't 
have  seen  the  angel,  as  I  did.  They  might  only  have 
seen  a  pajc  young  woman,  in  a  rather  worn  gray  gown, 
soothing  a  cross  baby  and  two  or  three  restless  children, 
while  the  poor  sick  mother,  to  whom  she  was  acting  as 
sick  nurse,  was  trying  to  get  some  rest  and  sleep. 
There  wasn't  any  golden  hair,  and  I  didn't  see  any 
wings,  so  my  angel  wouldn't  have  made  much  show  in 
a  picture.  And  she  does  coarse,  plain  sewing  for  a 
living  —  so  she  would  hardly  do  for  a  poem  either. 
Yes,  Hood  could  put  her  into  one.  But  if  ever  I  saw 
the  face  of  an  angel  on  any  mortal  creature  —  and  I 
have  seen  it  before,"  he  said  reverently,  with  a  momen- 
tary pause,  which  Marjorie  understood  —  "  it  was 
there,  so  calm,  so  sweet,  so  pure,  so  happy  —  in  such 
contrast  to  the  wretched  surroundings.  It  put  me  in 
mind  of  words  I  learned  long  ago  " — 


The  light  shiueth  iu  darkness.'" 


A    NOVKIVIHKK    KVKNIN(i. 


21 


"  Is  the  angel  very  poor,  then  ?  "  asked  Marjorie. 

"  Poor  ?  Yes,  1  .suppose  most  i)eople  woiikl  call  her 
poor.  To  nie  she  seemed  rich  in  things  no  gold  could 
buy  —  the  '  peace  that  passeth  understanding,'  the  love 
tiiat  'seeketh  not  her  own,'  the  'faith  that  vvorketh  by 
love.'  " 

"  Was  she  taking  care  of  the  poor  woman  who  was 
ill,  then  ?  "  asked  Marjorie. 

"  Yes.  She  earns  her  living  by  making  coarse  gar- 
ments for  a  mere  pittance,  lint  she  was  giving  up 
her  time,  and  her  money  too,  I  suspect,  to  acting  as 
an  angel  of  mercy  to  this  poor  suffering  woman  and 
her  family.  O,  Marjorie !  hov»  much  more  real 
heroines  there  often  are  in  the  poorest,  humblest  life, 
than  any  of  your  love-lorn  heroines  of  romance.  Some 
one  says  so  truly : 

"  '  Few  save  the  poor  feel  for  the  poor; 

They  little  know  how  hard 
It  is  to  be  of  needful  food 

And  needful  rest  debarred.'" 


Marjorie' s  eyes  were  wet  with  tears  as  the  picture 
rose  before  her  mind.  Presently  she  said  softly,  put- 
ting her  hand  in  her  father's :  "  I  wish  I  could  send 
the  angel  something,  father  dear.  Couldn't  I  put  my 
gold  half-eagle  into  an  envelope,  and  you  could  address 
it  to  her,  and  she  would  never  know  where  it  came 
from?" 


fT 


22 


A    NOVKMUKU    KVKNINO. 


I: 


r^ 


"  But  yoii,  were  saviii<:^  it  up  for  "  — 

''Oh  !  never  luintl,  papa  dear.  I'd  so  luuch  rather 
give  it  to  her." 

"  I'm  afraid  it's  ou(?  of  your  romantic  fancies,  Pet 
Marjorie,"  he  replied,  smilinji;'  down  at  her.  "  You 
must  think  it  well  over.  It  is  best  not  to  follow  an 
impulse  too  hastily,  lest  you  have  to  repent  at  leisure. 
Wait  a  little,  and  count  the  cost,  and  then,  if  you  still 
wish  it,  you  shall  put  it  up  and  address  it  yourself." 

"And  we'll  write  inside  the  envelope,  'The  light 
shineth  in  darkness.'      Won't  that  be  nice?" 

Mr.  Fleming  smiled  as  he  bent  down  to  kiss  his 
little  girl's  eager  face.  lie  thought  it  was  like  what 
her  mother  would  have  done,  and  the  thought  brought 
a  suspicious  moisture  to  his  eye. 

"But  my  angel  won't  have  the  least  idea  of  your 
meaning  in  making  the  quotation,"  he  said.  "  She 
hasn't  the  least  idea  that  she  is  doing  anytliing  angelic. 
She  will  think  that  it  is  the  kindness  of  an  unknown 
friend  that  is  the  '  light  shining  in  darkness.' "  And 
then  he  commented  inwardly :  "  Why  don't  such 
kindnesses  oftener  occur  to  people  who  could  do  them 
so  easily  '^ " 

"  I  don't  know  that  I  should  have  thought  of  those 
words  myself  just  then,  if  I  had  not  been  reading  this 
little  story  before  I  went  out.  It  is  by  a  young  author, 
I  think,  as  I  don't  know  the  name  at  all,  and  it  sounds 
like  a  young  writer.     And  it  bears  the  motto :  '  Lux 


I 


A    NOVKMliER    EVENIMU. 


28 


Lvcet  in  Tenehris.  You  know  enough  Latin  to  trans- 
late that,  don't  you  ?  " 

"  Why,  it's  on  your  little  match-box,  father  dear. 
I  learned  it  there  long  ago." 

"  Well,  now  for  the  story,"  he  said,  as  he  took  up 
the  manuscript. 

THE   STORY   OF   THE    NORTHERN    LIGHTS. 


The  great  King  of  Light  sat  in  his  palace,  radiant 
with  an  intensity  intolerable  to  any  mortal  eye.  About 
him  were  gathered  the  various  Light  spirits  who  were 
to  proceed  on  their  life-giving  mission,  each  one  to  her 
allotted  task.  There  were  the  rich,  warm  sunbeams, 
who  were  to  proceed  in  ordered  files  of  myriads,  each 
at  her  post,  making  the  wintry  air  soft  and  balmy, 
sending  the  quickened  sap  through  the  budding  boughs, 
waking  the  tiny  lilossoms  from  tlieir  winter  sleep, 
drawing  up  the  young  blades  of  grain,  swelling  the 
ears  day  by  day  till  they  reached  autumn  ripeness, 
molding  and  coloring  flowers  and  fruit,  to  gladden 
man's  heart,  and  make  earth  seem  for  the  time  a  para- 
dise. To  them  was  given  the  glad  task  of  sparkling 
in  the  crystal  drops  of  dew,  gleaming  on  the  shining 
green  leaves,  sending  showers  of  golden  arrows  into 
the  shady  recesses  of  the  solemn  pines,  and  glowing  in 
the  rich  hues  of  dawn  and  sunset. 

Next  in  beauty  and  brightness  came  the  spirits  of 


IT" 


\i 


24 


A    NOVEMBER    EVENING. 


I 

I 


1!! 


the  silvery  moonbeams,  and  they  too  received  their 
appointed  task.  To  them  it  was  given  to  replace  the 
departed  j^lory  of  the  sunbeams,  by  a  softer  and  more 
restful  luster,  spreading  a  solenm  and  ethereal  beauty 
over  woodland  and  lea  —  shedding  a  broad,  quivering- 
stream  of  silver  across  the  restless  waves,  guiding  the 
navigator  to  his  desired  haven,  and  the  belated  traveler 
to  home  and  rest.  They  too  went  to  discharge  their 
mission  in  ordered  ranks,  and  made  for  the  night  a 
second  glory,  as  beautiful,  though  not  as  bright,  as  the 
glory  of  the  day. 

At  last  there  was  left  only  one  spirit  who  had  not 
received  her  charge.  She  was  the  most  subtle  and 
ethereal  of  all  the  Light  spirits,  and  unlike  those  of 
the  sunbeams  and  moonbeams,  her  immediate  parentage 
was  veiled  in  mystery.  Her  light  was  not  golden,  like 
that  of  the  sunbeams,  nor  silvery  like  that  of  the  moon- 
light spirits,  but  of  a  pure,  white,  intense  radiance,  so 
pure  that  even  its  intensity  was  scarcely  dazzling,  but 
only  luminous.  But  she  was  a  shy  and  sensitive  spirit, 
fond  of  sheltering  herself  in  obscurity,  and  becoming 
invisible.  She  stood  in  the  background,  nearly  hidden 
by  a  dark  cloudy  veil,  till  all  the  rest  had  received 
their  commission,  and  departed  to  fulfill  it.  Then  the 
king  called  her  and  said : 

"  For  thee,  too,  my  child,  there  is  a  mission,  and  the 
most  precious  mission  of  all.  Thou  art  to  be  a  light 
to  shine  in  the  darkness." 


A    NOVEMBER    EVENING. 


25 


Then  he  told  her  that  she  was  to  be  sent  to  a  remote 
region,  dark  and  cold,  where,  for  weeks  and  months 
the  sun  shines  not,  and  where  Stern  winter's  reign  is 
almost  unchecked.  And  there  she  was  to  carry  her 
pure  white  radiance,  to  gleam  brightly  out  from  the 
blackness  of  the  wintry  sky,  to  lighten  with  her  soft 
brilliancy  the  long,  dark,  moonless  nights,  to  show  to 
the  traveler  in  his  sledge  the  way  over  the  trackless 
snow,  and  cheer  the  icy  desolation  with  the  hope  of  re- 
turning sunshine  and  warmth  which  should  at  last  dis- 
perse the  darkness,  and  cheer  the  dreary  waste  with 
light  and  life. 

The  timid  spirit  trembled  at  the  task  before  her, 
and  begged  that  she  might  have  an  easier,  less  solitary 
mission.     But  the  king  said  : 

"For  thee,  my  purest  and  strongest  child,  I  have 
reserved  this  noblest  task  —  to  go  where  light  is  most 
needed.  Fear  not,  but  depend  on  me  for  the  power 
to  fulfill  thy  mission.  When  thou  feelest  thyself 
weakest  and  most  afraid,  I  will  strengthen  thee  and 
make  thee  brightest.  Not  in  thyself  shall  be  thy  light, 
but  in  constant  communication  with  me." 

The  spirit  bowed  her  head  and  departed  to  the 
cold  and  dreary  northern  regions,  where  for  months 
the  sun  never  rises.  And  there  she  spread  out  her 
luminous  banners  and  streamers  of  light,  till  the  black- 
ness of  the  winter  night  seemed  to  throb  with  pulsa- 
tions of  quivering  brightness,  seen  amidst  the  darkness 


26 


A   NOVEMBER    EVENING. 


iii 


>HI 


and  the  brighter  for  the  contrast  with  it.  And  when 
the  loneliness,  and  the  power  of  the  surrounding  dark- 
ness which  she  could  not  entirely  overcome  threatened 
to  overpower  her,  and  her  light  trembled  and  grew 
faint,  the  promised  power  from  the  great  king  came  to 
her  aid.  In  the  hour  of  weakness  came  her  strength, 
and  at  such  times  her  brilliancy  fairly  flashed  and 
coruscated  across  the  sky ;  and  golden  and  rosy  tints, 
that  seemed  borrowed  from  the  dawn  itself,  flushed 
through  the  pure,  pearly  radiance  of  her  unwearied 
light.  And  grateful  'nen,  watching  the  glory  and 
beauty  of  this  "  light  shining  in  darkness  "  have  called 
her  the  Aurora  Borealis — the  rosy-fingered  dawn 
of  the  Northern  sky. 

As  Mr.  Fleming  laid  down  the  paper,  he  looked  at 
Marjorie,  who  sat  lost  in  thought,  her  work  lying 
neglected  in  her  lap.  "  Well,  Marjorie,"  he  said, 
"  what  do  you  think  of  the  story  ?  " 

"It's  very  pretty,"  she  replied.  "  But  I  don't  think 
I  quite  understand  it.     I  suppose  it's  a  parable." 

"  Yes  ;  it  has  a  very  deep  meaning,  to  my  mind  ;  but 
I  could  scarcely  expect  you  to  see  all  its  meaning  yet : 
or  until  you  have  thought  and  felt  a  great  deal  more 
than  you  have  had  time  to  do  yet." 

"  You  said  it  made  you  think  of  the  angel  you  saw 
to-day ;  or  that  she  made  you  think  of  it,  as  she  did 
of  the  '  light  that  shineth  in  darkness.' " 


A    NOVEMBER    EVENING. 


27 


*'  Yes ;  it's  a  type  of  the  Light  that  is  always  at 
present '  shining  in  darkness  ' ;  of  the  light  as  it  shines 
in  our  own  hearts  amid  so  much  of  surrounding 
darkness.  It  made  me  think  of  brave  Gordon,  shut 
up  there  in  Khartoum,  like  a  man  holding  up  a  soli- 
tary torch  in  that  great  gloomy  desert ;  and  of  many 
a  missionary  light-bearer,  at  home  and  abroad,  each 
carrying  a  lonely  ray  of  light  into  the  darkness  about 
him  ;  and,  most  of  all,  of  Him  who  is  still  the  '  Light 
that  shineth  in  darkness,'  and  the  darkness,  even  yet, 
comprehendeth  it  not.  You  don't  know  yet  half  of 
what  that  means,  Pet  Marjorie,  but  you'll  know  more 
of  it  by  and  by  —  especially  if  you  should  be  a  light- 
bearer  yourself." 

Marjorie  looked  very  grave.  "I'm  afraid,  father 
dear,  I  would  rather  be  one  of  the  sunbeams.  It  must 
be  so  much  nicer  to  shine  where  everytliing  else  is 
warm  and  bright  and  simny  too." 

"  Yes,  ever  so  much  '  nicer,'  "  he  replied  with  a 
smile  ;  "  and  there  are  a  great  many  good  people  of 
your  way  of  thinking.  But  it  is  hardly  so  useful  or 
so  noble,  or  so  Christlike  as  it  is  to  shine  in  the  dark- 
ness, even  though  you  may  be  uncomprehended  or  mis- 
understood. But  now  it  is  getting  late,  and  I  don't 
intend  to  sit  up  much  longer  myself  to-night,  for  I 
still  feel  that  chill  hanging  about  me.  So  we'll  read 
about  that  Light  shining  in  darkness,  and  then  say 
good-night." 


28 


A    NOVEMBER    EVENING. 


/ 


Mr.  Fleming  usually  read  aloud  a  few  verses  from 
the  Bible  before  Marjorie  and  he  parted  for  the  night. 
This  evening  he  read  the  first  half  of  the  first  chapter 
of  St  John's  Gospel.  Marjorie  had  often  read  it  be- 
fore, and  knew  it  almost  by  heart.  But  she  had  never 
before  attached  any  definite  meaning  to  the  words : 
"  The  Light  shineth  in  darkness,  and  the  darkness 
comprehendeth  it  not."  But  to-night  the  image  of  the 
bright  Aurora,  shining  amidst  the  dprkness  which 
still  remained  darkness,  opposed  and  cmcomprehending, 
seemed  to  throw  a  new  light  on  the  old  familiar  words. 
When  she  fell  asleep,  the  same  vision  seemed  to  be 
floacing  through  her  brain.  She  dreamed  that  she  was 
walking  alone  over  a  wide  trackless  waste  of  ice  and 
snow,  through  a  dark  moonless  night,  not  knowing 
whither  she  was  going,  or  how  to  choose  her  path, 
when  suddenly  a  shaft  of  pure  white  light  shot  up 
amidst  the  darkness.  It  grew  and  grew,  until  it 
seemed  to  wear  the  semblance  of  a  great  shining  angel 
beckoning  her  onward.  And  presently,  more  lights 
appeared  in  the  sky,  till  all  the  night  about  her  seemed 
•*-o  be  filled  with  an  angelic  host,  and  she  heard  sweet 
strains  of  music,  such  as  she  had  often  heard  in  church, 
bearing  to  her  ear  the  old  familiar  words  of  the  Clirist- 
mas  song:  "Glory  to  God  in  the  highest;  on  earth 
peace  and  goodwill  to  men." 


J 


CHAPTER  II. 


SOME      DARK      DAYS. 


That  was  the  last  talk  that  Marjorie  and  her  father 
had  for  a  good  while.  The  chill  that  Mr.  Fleming 
had  taken  that  evening  produced  serious  results.  He 
felt  so  ill  next  morning  that  the  doctor  had  to  be 
summoned,  and,  in  spite  of  all  he  could  do,  the  attack 
developed  into  inflammation  of  the  lungs,  accompanied 
by  a  touch  of  bronchitis,  to  which  he  was  constitution- 
ally liable.  For  days  he  had  to  be  kept  perfectly 
quiet,  while  the  doctor  came  every  few  hours  and 
watched  his  patient's  progress  with  great  anxiety. 
Marjorie  was  distressed  and  anxious,  though  she  scarcely 
realized  the  danger,  being  accustomed  to  her  father's 
severe  colds  and  attacks  of  bronchitis.  By  his  express 
desire  she  went  to  school  as  usual  and  tried  to  study 
her  lessons,  though  not  by  any  means  with  her  usual 
success.  But  when  she  hurried  home  from  school,  with 
an  anxious  heart,  eager  to  know  how  her  father  felt 
now,  and  how  Rebecca  thought  he  was  getting  on, 
she  was  much  more  inclined  to  hover  about  the  sick 


w 


11 


SOME    DARK    DAYS. 


room,  attempting  the  superfluous  task  of  assisting  the 
capable  and  experienced  Rebecca  in  attending  to  tlie 
patient's  comfort,  than  to  set  to  work  at  the  lessons 
which  had  never  seemed  so  dry  and  difficult  before. 
But  she  knew  it  worried  her  father  when  she  neglected 
her  studies,  and  the  aoctor  had  said  that  much  depended 
on  keeping  him  perfectly  quiet,  so  Marjorie  toiled 
away  over  French  verbs  and  Gernum  adjectives  and 
still  more  tiresome  sums,  with  a  very  half-hearted 
attention,  glad  when  they  were  done  and  she  was  free 
to  sit  by  her  father,  or  carry  him  the  nourishment  that 
Rebecca  prepared.  The  short  November  days  had 
never  seemed  so  dreary,  and  the  solitary  meals  seemed 
so  uninviting  that,  but  for  Rebecca's  energetic  remon- 
strances, Marjorie  would  have  half-starved  herself. 

"  It's  just  too  ridicklous,"  that  sensible  handmaid 
would  declare,  "  for  you  to  be  frettin'  yourself  sick, 
when  you  ought  to  be  savin'  up  yourself  to  cheer  up 
the  master  ;  an'  then,  when  he's  gettin'  well,  you'll  be 
taken  down  sick  next,  worry  in'  him  to  death  almost !  " 

This  consideration  never  failed  to  have  its  effect  on 
Marjorie,  when  nothing  else  would  make  her  feel  like 
swallowing  the  food  that  seemed  as  if  it  would  choke 
her. 

But  at  last  the  doctor  announced  that  he  thought 
his  patient  out  of  danger,  and  that,  with  care,  he  might 
soon  be  restored  to  his  usual  state  of  health.  Mar- 
jorie's  relief  and  delight  were  so  great,  and  the  reac- 


SOME   DAllK  DAYS. 


31 


tioii  to  overflowing^  spirits  so  strong,  that  Rebecca  had 
to  be  constantly  warning  her  not  to  excite  or  fatigue 
her  father  by  too  frequent  expressions  of  her  satisfac- 
tion at  his  slowly  returning  strength. 

One  cold,  bleak  November  afternoon,  two  or  three 
days  after  the  turning-point,  she  was  walking  home 
from  school  with  her  friend  Nettie  Lane.  Marjorie  was 
in  her  brightest  mood,  as  she  talked  of  her  father's 
recent  improvement.  During  the  time  when  she  had 
been  feeling  oppressed  by  anxiety,  she  had  shyly 
avoided  speaking  of  his  illness,  as  far  as  it  was  possible 
for  her  to  do  so  ;  had  answered  inquiries  as  briefly 
as  possible,  and  had  even  avoided  Nettie  herself,  from 
an  instinctive  dread  of  Nettie's  too  ready  and  often 
thoughtless  tongue.  But  now,  with  a  natural  desire 
for  sympathy,  she  talked  freely  and  hopefully  of  her 
father's  daily  increasing  improvement. 

But  Nettie  was  not  so  sympathetic  as  might  have 
been  expected.  At  home  she  had  heard  it  confidently 
predicted  that  Mr.  Fleming  "  would  not  get  over  it," 
and  people  are  often  unwilling  to  admit  their  judgments 
to  be  wrong,  even  in  such  matters.  So  Nettie  looked 
rather  important,  and  remarked  that  her  mother  had 
said  that  appearances  were  often  deceitful,  and,  any 
way,  Mr.  Fleming  was  in  a  very  "•  critical  condition." 

''  And  I  guess  '  critical '  means  something  pretty 
bad,"  added  Nettie,  "•  for  that  was  what  the  doctor  said 
before  our  baby  died." 


32 


SOME    DARK   DAYS. 


\\\ 


11 


l<! 


"But  Dr.  Stone  says  he  thinks  papa  will  soon  be 
all  right  again,"  said  Marjorie,  keenly  hurt  by  Nettie's 
blunt  and  unfeeling  words. 

"  O,  well !  you  never  can  tell  what  doctors  mean  by 
that,"  she  added  sententiously.  ''  Mother  thinks,  any 
way,  you  ought  to  realize  the  danger  more  ;  for  she 
says  it  would  be  dreadful  if  he  were  taken  away  while 
he  is  so  unprepared." 

"  My  father  —  unprepared !  "  exclaimed  Marjorie, 
too  much  shocked  to  say  more. 

*'  Yes,"  replied  Nettie  decidedly ;  "  every  one's  un- 
prepared if  they're  not  converted,  you  know ;  and 
mother  says  she's  sure  he's  never  been  converted." 

"  I  don't  think  your  mother  knows  anything  about 
it,  then,"  said  Marjorie,  indignantly. 

"  Marjorie  Fleming  !  aren't  you  ashamed  ?  My 
mother  knows  all  about  such  things.  She  says  she 
can  always  tell  when  a  person's  converted,"  exclaimed 
Nettie,  aggrieved  in  her  turn. 

"  Well,  she  doesn't  know  much  about  my  father ; 
and  I  don't  think  you  ought  to  say  such  things  to  me," 
said  Marjorie,  trying  hard  to  repress  the  tears  that  she 
would  not  on  any  account  have  let  Nettie  see. 

"  Yes,  I  ought,"  persisted  Nettie,  "  because  you 
ought  to  pray  for  him  every  day  —  that  he  mightn't 
die  till  he  was  converted,  for  you  know  that  would  be 
dreadful  I" 

"  Nettie  Lane,  I  just  wish  you  would  mind  your 


SOME    DARK    DAYS. 


own  business  !  "  almost  sobbed  out  Marjorie,  who  could 
bear  no  more ;  and  without  another  word  she  turned 
the  corner  quickly,  and  almost  ran  till  she  was  safe 
within  her  own  doo**.  And  then,  when  she  had  got 
into  her  own  little  room,  she  gave  way  to  the  fit  of 
grieved  and  indignant  crying  that  she  could  no  longer 
keep  down. 

It  was  intensely  wounding  both  to  her  pride  and  to 
her  affection,  to  hear  Nettie  talk  in  such  a  flippant,  un- 
feeling fashion,  of  the  father  she  so  passionately  loved 
and  revered.  And  to  be  told  that  she  ought  to  pray 
for  her  father's  recovery  —  when  she  had  been  praying 
so  earnestly  morning,  noon  and  night  that  he  might 
be  restored  to  health !  And  under  all  the  rest  lay 
an  uneasy  misgiving  lest  there  might  be  some  truth  in 
what  Mrs.  Lane  had  said.  She  knew  how  Mrs.  Lane 
was  looked  up  to  as  an  "  eminent  Christian  "  —  a  leader 
in  all  good  works ;  and  if  she  said  such  a  thing,  she 
must  think  it ;  and  how  could  Marjorie  tell  what  this 
mysterious  "  being  converted  "  meant  ?  And  she  knew 
that  her  father  was  not  a  very  regular  attendant  at 
church,  and  that  in  some  other  respects  he  was  not  just 
like  some  of  the  people  that  Nettie,  on  her  mother's 
authority,  called  "real  Christians."  But  then  she 
remembered  what  he  had  said  about  many  people  being 
"  half-heathens,"  and  how  he  had  spoken  to  her  about 
the  "  light  that  shineth  in  darkness."  She  felt  per- 
plexed and  bewildered  ;  and  it  was  a  great  comfort  to 


34 


SOME    DAliK    DAYS. 


!  ! 


her  when  Dr.  Stone's  neat  little  equipage  drove  up 
to  the  door,  and  the  brisk,  cheery  little  doctor  bright- 
ened her  up  by  his  hopeful,  encouraging  words  about 
her  dear  father. 

"  I've  told  him  he  can  leave  his  room  and  take  tea 
with  you  to-night,"  he  said.  ''  A  little  change  will  be 
good  for  him  now ;  only  take  care  to  have  a  good  fire  ; 
and  keep  the  temperature  of  the  room  very  even,"  was 
his  parting  injunction. 

How  good  it  was  to  see  her  father  once  more  in  his 
own  easy-chair  by  the  fire,  and  to  see  that,  though  still 
weak  and  pale,  he  looked  so  much  like  himself,  and 
smiled  so  cheerfully  at  all  the  little  i)reparations  for 
his  comfort,  while  he  also  expressed  his  satisfaction  in 
his  own  way. 

"  Why,  Marjorie,"  he  said,  "  you  and  Rebecca  will 
spoil  me  altogether,  if  you  coddle  me  up  like  this," 
and  he  bent  over  to  kiss  his  excited  child,  thinking 
how  much  she  looked  like  her  motlier  just  then.  She 
had  forgotten,  for  the  time,  all  about  the  disquietude 
of  the  afternoon  ;  but  by  and  by  it  came  back  to  her 
when  tea  was  over  and  she  sat  down  by  her  father,  who 
seemed  disinclined  to  try  to  read  yet.  It  was  Friday 
evening,  so  that  she  did  not  need  to  learn  her  lessons 
till  next  day. 

"  Well,  Marjorie,  what  subject  are  you  considering 
so  deeply?"  asked  Mr.  Fleming,  watching  her  pre- 
occupied and  absent  air  as  she  gazed  into  the  fire  and 


SOME    DARK    DAYS. 


86 


stroked  Robin's  shagf^y  locks.  Marjorie  had  often 
wondered  at  her  father's  jjower  of  dlvinino-  her  "  moods 
and  tenses,"  as  he  used  to  call  them,  and  she  was  not 
sorry  to  have  an  o})portunity  of  unl)urdening  her  mind 
a  little  to  tlie  only  person  who,  slie  felt,  could  give  her 
any  light  on  the  subject.  So  she  looked  up,  and  asked 
shyly :  *"  Papa  —  what  does  it  mean,  exactly  —  to  '  be 
converted '  ?  " 

"  To  be  turned  round  from  the  wrong  to  the  right," 
he  replied. 

"  Is  that  all  ?  "  she  asked  in  surprise.  "  I  thought 
it  meant  —  to  have  a  new  heart.  Were  you  ever  con- 
verted, father  ?  "  she  added,  finding  no  way  of  getting 
at  what  she  wanted,  except  the  direct  question. 

"  What  has  Nettie  Lane  been  saying  to  you,  dear?" 
Mr.  Fleming  asked,  with  one  of  his  scrutinizing  looks 
and  a  slight  smile. 

''  Why,  father,  how  could  you  know  ?  "  she  asked  in 
startled  surprise. 

"  I  can  put  things  together,"  he  said  quietly.  "  I 
know  Mrs.  Lane's  ideas  pretty  well,  and  I  can  guess 
her  opinion  of  me.  She  is  one  of  the  Christians  who 
forget  that  their  Master  has  said,  '■'•  Judge  not,"  and 
who  doesn't  understand  any  one's  being  religious  if  it 
isn't  in  their  own  way.  She  is  a  good  woman,  and 
honestly  tries  to  do  good,  but,  like  many  other  good 
people,  she  is  apt  to  make  mistakes  when  she  tries  to 
judge  others." 


36 


SOxME    DAKK    DAYS. 


ill 


'!« 


ill  I 

11  i 


''  I  knew  you  were  religious,  father ;  but  1  don't 
understand  about  being-  converted." 

"  Well,  my  dear  child,  I  don't  want  you  to  mistake 
me,  and  1  think  the  best  way  to  answer  your  question 
will  be  to  tell  you  something  of  my  own  experience 
and  my  own  mistakes.  It  may  save  you  from  some, 
and  I  should  like  to  tell  you  more  about  myself  than 
1  have  ever  done  yet.  1  have  been  very  ill,  you  know, 
dear,  and  in  all  these  quiet  hours  and  days  that  1  have 
been  laid  aside  —  not  knowing  whether  I  should  ever 
jome  ba(;k  to  my  old  life  again  —  I  have  been  think- 
ing a  good  deal  about  my  own  past,  and  of  things  I 
have  been  led  to  see,  that  once  I  did  not  see." 

Marjorie's  eyes  had  filled  with  tears  as  her  father 
referred,  in  his  still  weak  voice,  to  that  terrible  possi- 
bility, and  then,  with  quick  anxiety,  she  asked  if  it 
would  not  tire  him  too  much.  And  Rebecca  came  in 
to  enforce  the  necessity  of  Mr.  Fleming  saving  his 
strength,  and  not  wearing  himself  out  with  too  nmch 
talking  yet,  a  truth  which  the  fatigue  he  already  felt 
obliged  him  to  admit.  So  what  he  wanted  to  tell 
Marjorie  was  postponed,  and  eager  as  she  was  to  hear 
it,  she  cheerfuUv  settled  down  to  read  to  him  the 
newly  arrived  papers,  and  some  things  that  specially 
interested  him  in  the  last  unopened  number  of  the 
periodical  with  which  he  was  connected. 

The  next  evening  an  old  friend  from  the  city  office 
came  in  to  see  him,  aud  he  and  Dr.  Stone  had  a  little 


flOMK    I)  Aim    DAYS. 


37 


private  talk  witli  Mr.  Fleming'  while  Marjorie  finished 
her  lessons,  for  once,  in  her  own  room.  Sunday  was 
a  lovely  day  for  November  —  almost  spring-like  in  its 
mildness  —  and  Mr.  FItunIng  was  downstairs  to  give 
Murjorie  a  pleasant  surprise  vVlien  she  eanie  home 
from  church.  This  unexpected  pleasure  made  her 
forget  what  she  had  heen  going  to  tell  him,  until  her 
return  from    Sunday-school,  as    the    early  dusk   was 


closing  in. 


"  O,  father !  we  needn't  have  the  lights  in  yet  ?  " 
she  asked  eagerly,  for  the  warm  glow  of  the  firelight 
was  so  inviting,  and  Marjorie  liked  nothing  better 
than   a    twilight    talk    with    her    father   on    Sunday 


evening. 


"  No,  dear ;  I  have  read  as  much  as  I  care  to  read, 
just  now,  and  I  would  rather  go  on  with  the  talk  we 
began  the  other  evening." 

Marjorie  gladly  settled  herself  down  in  her  low 
chair  by  his  side,  and  Kobin  stretched  himself  content- 
edly at  their  feet.  Then,  with  a  sudden  recollection, 
she  exclaimed : 

"  O,  papa  I  what  do  you  think  was  the  text  this 
morning  ?  It  was  a  stranger  that  preached,  and  I 
don't  know  his  name,  but  his  text  was  :  '  The  light 
shineth  in  darkness,  and  the  darkness  comprehendeth 
it  not.'     Wasn't  it  odd?" 

"Not  very,"  replied  her  father.  "You  would  never 
have  noticed  the  text  specially  if  it  hadn't  been  for 


m 


mm 
M 


38 


SOME    DARK    DAYS. 


our  talk  about  it.  Well,  can  you  tell  me  any  of  the 
sermon?  " 

"  He  said,  for  one  thing,  that  Christ  lighted  every  man 
tha^  came  into  the  world,  and  that  meant,  that  he  gave 
them  light  enough  to  vvalk  by,  if  they  would  take  it. 
And  then  he  said  just  what  you  said  that  evening, 
about  our  hearts  being  so  full  of  darkness  that  the 
light  often  shone  in  the  midst  of  it  without  being  able 
to  drive  it  away  ;  and  that  even  good  people  often  had 
a  great  deal  more  darkness  in  their  hearts  than  they 
knew." 

Marjorie  had  been  accustomed  to  have  to  bring 
home  reports  of  the  sermons  she  heard  when  her  father 
was  not  with  her,  and  partly  in  this  way  she  had  ac- 
quired the  habit  of  listening  with  attention,  and 
carrying  away  leading  thoughts  in  her  mind. 

"  Yes,"  said  Mr.  Fleming,  "  that  is  only  too  true. 
'  Lighten  our  darkness  '  is  perhaps  the  prayer  we  all 
need  most.  But  then  if  we  are  only  sincere  in  trying 
to  walk  in  the  light  we  have,  we  shall  have  more  light. 
It  has  always  seemed  inexpressibly  touching  to  me 
that  those  words,  '  more  light,'  should  have  been  the 
last  on  the  great  Goethe's  dying  lips.  With  all  the 
light  his  splendid  intellect  and  vast  knowledge  could 
give  him,  '  more  light  "  was,  he  felt,  what  he  needed 
most.  It  seems  sad,  too,  that  he  could  not,  while  he 
lived,  have  seen  the  true  '  Light  of  the  World.'  But 
pride  and  selfishness  are  terribly  blinding  powers." 


SOME    DARK    DAYS. 


"  Well,  father,"  said  Marjorie,  much  less  interested 
in  Goethe  than  in  himself,  "you  said  you  were  going 
to  tell  me  about  yourself." 

"  Yes,  darling,  and  so  I  will.     Well,  I  was  a  long 
time  in  getting  to  see  that  true  Light,  and  that  gives 
me  more  patience  with  others.      You  know  that  I  was 
born  and  brought  up  in  Scotland,  though  I  left  it  as 
soon  as  I  had  finished    my  university    course.       My 
parents  were  good  people,  but  very  strict  in  their  ideas 
—  my  father  especially  so  —  and  very  sure  that  what 
they  had  been  taught  to  believe  was  the  exact  truth, 
and  everything  different  must  be  wrong.       From  the 
people  about  me  I  got  the  idea  that  certain  beliefs  were 
a  necessary  part  of  Christianity,  which  I  now  believe 
people  got  out  of  the  darkness  of  their  own  hearts,  and 
not  out  of    the    Bible  —  beliefs  which  are    certainly 
(piite  inconsistent  with  the  blessed  truth  that  '  God  is 
Love,'  and  which,  I  think,  taught  them  to  be  hard  and 
unloving  and  unforgiving,   as  they  fancied  God  was. 
I  was  too  much  of  a  boy  —  too  lazy  and  careless  about 
such  things  —  to  study  the  Bible  for  myself,  and  see 
what  Christ  and  his  apostles  really  taught.     And  so, 
first  I  grew  to  dread  and  dislikii  the    very  name  of 
God,  and  everything  that  reminded  me  of  One  whom 
I  never  thought  of  loving>but  only  of  fearing.     And 
then  as  I  grew  older,  and  met  with  other  young  men, 
and    read    more,   I    was    very    easily  persuaded    that 
religion  was  all  a  superstition  —  because  some  things 


40 


SOME    DARK    DAYS. 


I  had  been  taught  could  not  be  true  —  and  that  it  was 
impossible,  even  if  there  was  a  God,  that  we  could 
ever  understand  him,  or  could  even  know  whether  he 
existed  or  not." 

"  That's  what  you  call  an  Agnostic,  isn't  it,  papa  ? 
Mrs.  Lane  thinks  they  are  dreadful  peojjle,  but  they 
can't  be,  if  you  were  ever  one,"  said  Marjorie,  im- 
pulsively. 

"  They  are  very  much  to  be  pitied,  at  any  rate,"  he 
said,  "  for  wandering  in  darkness  when  there  is  light. 
And  often  it  is  not  so  much  their  fault  as  that  of  the 
Christians  who  pervert  or  misrepresent  Christianity. 
1  was  unfortunate,  too,  in  some  friends  of  whom,  at 
one  time,  I  saw  a  good  deal  —  people  who  were  very 
earnest  and  devoted  Christians,  but  seemed  to  care  for 
nothing  in  life  that  was  not  distinctly  religious.  Art, 
science,  even  philanthropic  reforms,  they  seemed  to 
think  unworthy  of  a  Cliristian's  attention.  There 
was  for  them  only  one  interest  —  that  which  they 
call  '  salvation,'  and  they  seemed  to  care  little  even  for 
other  people,  vniless  they  thought  as  they  did.  Now  I 
thought,  and  truly  enough,  that  if  there  was  a  God,  he 
was  the  God  of  nature  as  well  as  of  religion,  and  that 
he  must  have  created  all  man's  faculties  and  intended 
him  to  use  them  ;  and  so  th(j  narrowness  of  these  really 
good  people  only  confirmed  me  in  my  idea  that 
religion  is  only  a  superstition.  And  I  took  these 
stunted,  dwarfed  specimens  —  stunted  and  dwarfed  by 


SOME    DARK    DAYS. 


the  perversity  and  narrowness  of  human  nature  —  for 
the  natural  fruits  of  the  tree  of  Christianity,  and 
thought  that  I  was  thus  judging  the  tree  by  its  fruits. 

"  Well,  as  I  said,  I  came  to  America  just  after  my 
university  course,  when  your  Uncle  Kamsay  married 
my  eldest  sister,  and  came  out  to  settle  in  Montreal. 
I  had  very  exalted  ideas  on  the  subject  of  human  free- 
dom, and  I  thought  that  republican  institutions  and 
the  growth  of  humanity  would  right  every  evil  uruier 
the  sun.  But  I  soon  found  that  even  these  were  by 
no  means  perfect ;  that  abuses  and  selfish  oppression 
and  many  other  evils  seemed  to  spring  up,  like  weeds 
from  the  soil.  As  a  young  writer,  trying  to  make  my 
way,  I  had  a  hard  time  of  it,  and  many  experiences 
tliat  gradually  led  me  into  very  pessimistic,  that  is 
hojieless,  views  of  humanity,  and  I  was  feeling  very, 
very  miserable  and  dejected,  when  —  I  met  your  dear 
mother." 

Marjorie's  eyes  followed  the  direction  of  her  father's 
—  to  the  sweet  face  in  the  picture.  Both  were  silent 
for  a  few  moments. 

Then  Mr.  Fleming  continued :  "  To  me,  in  my  de- 
]n'essed  state  of  mind,  she  seemed  a  very  angel  of 
consolation.  And  when  1  found  that  she  loved  me, 
and  was  willing  to  share  my  not  very  brilliant  pros- 
pects, life  seemed  to  blossom  anew  for  me.  It  seemed 
as  if  now  I  had  found  the  true  light  of  life,  and  for  a 
time  it  was  all  I  wanted. 


'Ti 


42 


SOME    DARK    DAYS. 


I'i 


i  i 


"  But  it  was  not  all  she  wanted.  I  had  purposely 
avoided  saying  anything  to  her  about  the  faith  in 
which  I  knew  she  implicitly  believed.  I  went  to 
church  —  though  not  very  regularly  —  and  she  knew 
I  was  serious  and  earnest  in  my  ideas  and  in  my  life ; 
that  I  worked  with  all  my  heart  for  what  seemed  to 
me  for  the  good  of  man,  and  I  think  that  even  while 
she  had  a  misgiving  that  her  faith  was  not  mine,  she 
still  hoped  that  it  was,  and  when  she  could  no  longer 
even  hope  this,  she  still  hoped  that  it  yet  would  be." 

Marjorie  sat  listening  with  intense  interest.  She 
had  never  heard  much  of  her  dead  mother  except  from 
her  Aunt  Millie,  and  this  opening  of  her  father's 
heart  and  life  to  her,  was  a  more  precious  gift  than 
any  other  he  could  have  bestowed  on  her.  Mr.  Flem- 
ing spoke  slowly  and  thoughtfully  —  almost  as  if 
thinking  aloud  —  now  and  then  pausing,  as  if  the 
time  he  was  speaking  about  was  present  still. 

"  As  our  happy  marrii xi  life  went  on,"  he  continued, 
"  and  your  mother's  nature  matured  and  deepened,  her 
true,  spiritual  faith  grew  deeper  and  stronger  also. 
She  did  what  I  had  never  done — studied  the  Bible 
daily  and  thoughtfully,  with  a  loving  and  childlike 
heart,  and  remembei*,  Marjorie  darling,  it  is  only 
love  that  '  comprehendeth  love.'  Without  this,  it  is 
no  wonder  so  many  critics  should  miss  the  vei^y  heart 
and.  core  of  revelation.  But  as  her  love  and  faith 
grew  stronger,  she  grew  more  sensitive  to  my  lack  of 


) 


SOME    DARK    DAYS. 


48 


sympathy  with  either,  and  I  well  know  it  was  a  great 
and  growing  sorrow  to  her.  I  always  put  the  subject 
aside  as  gently  as  I  could  when  it  came  up,  for  by 
that  time  my  will  was  set  against  believing ;  but  I  felt 
the  wistful  pain  in  her  face  in  spite  of  myself.  Then 
our  first  baby  died,  and  I  knew  that  in  that  sorrow  her 
one  consolation  was  that  which  I  could  not  and  would 
not  share ;  and  this  seemed  to  make  a  separation  be- 
tween us,  just  when  sorrow  should  have  drawn  us 
closest.  She  was  never  very  strong,  and  I  think  this 
double  sorrow  undermined  her„health  so  much  that, 
shortly  after  your  birth  I  lost  her,  as  I  then  thought, 
forever!  "  , 

Marjorie's  tears  were  flowing  now.  Her  father  took 
her  hand  in  his,  while  he  gently  stroked  her  hair  with 
the  other  ;  and,  after  a  short  pause,  he  went  on. 

"  What  I  went  through  at  that  time,  Marjorie,  I 
could  never  tell  in  words.  It  was  the  blackness  of 
darkness.  I  knew  then  what  it  was  to  be  '  without 
God  and  without  hope  in  the  world.'  I  would  have 
longed  for  death,  but  even  that  gave  me  no  hope  of 
reunion  with  her  who  was  my  life  —  and  what  did  I 
know  of  a  '  beyond  '  ?  And  healthy  human  nature 
shrinks  from  a  vacuum  !  So  I  lived  on,  trying  to  for- 
get my  sorrow  in  my  work.  Your  Aunt  Millie  came 
to  live  with  me,  and  did  all  she  could  to  cheer  me. 
She  was  passionately  fond  of  Tennyson's  '  In  Memo- 
riam,'  and  sometimes  in  the  evenings,  when  I  sat  too 


^1 

Hi 


n    ^ 


44 


SOME   DAKK    DAYS. 


i 


tired  and  sad  to  talk  or  read,  she  would  read  to  me 
bits  of  that  beautiful  poem,  which  I  had  never  cared 
to  il  u.^  .  tlian  glance  at  before.  The  beauty  and 
music  of  the  poetry  attracted  me  at  first,  and  by  de- 
grees some  of  its  teaching  found  its  way  into  my  heart. 
I  began  to  fo'A  that  human  knowledge  is  not  all  knowl- 
edge, 'u>..  ii'.  there  were  other  ways  of  getting  at 
truth  than  bj  •.  >  sf^uses  and  our  short-sighted  human 
reai'^ning.  And  o  io  w  .ke  a  long  story  short,  I  be- 
gan to  streicn  ''-t  )',  wjh  through  the  darkness,  to 
the  Light  that  can  yiiJijii.  o .  jn  in  darkness,  and  that,  as 
I  found,  shone  even  for  me.  Your  Uncle  Ramsay  too 
helped  me  by  telling  me  that  if  I  wanted  to  get  more 
light,  I  must  honestly  seek  to  follow  the  light  I  had, 
and  that  Christ  had  said, '  If  any  man  will  do  his  will, 
he  shall  know  of  the  doctrine.'  I  began  to  study 
Christ's  life  and  words,  and  was  amazed  to  find  there 
many  things  that  I  had  never  seen  before  —  often  as  I 
had  heard  and  read  the  words  —  things  that  transcended 
my  own  highest  ideal  of  moral  purity,  and  that,  alas,  far 
transcended  my  power  of  acting  up  to  them.  But  I 
felt  that  in  the  very  desire  to  follow  Christ  came  the 
power  of  following.  There  were  many  things  that  I 
did  not  see  for  a  long  time  —  some  that  I  cannot  say  I 
see  clearly  even  yet ;  but  this  I  have  long  been  sure  of  : 
that  no  light  has  ever  come  to  this  world's  darkness 
to  compare  with  the  divine  glory  seen  in  Jesus  Christ, 
and  that  in  the  loving  following  of  him,  is  the  life  and 


ii 


SOME   DARK    DAYS. 


45 


light  of  men !  I  could  say  for  myself,  from  the  heart, 
what  was  said  by  one  who  was  also  a  long  and  anxious 
seeker  for  truth,  whose  life  I  read  some  years  ago. 
'  Fully  assured  that  when  I  am  most  a  Christian,  I  am 
the  best  man,  I  am  content  to  adhere  to  that  as  my 
guide  in  the  absence  of  better  light,  and  wait  till  God 
shall  afford  me  more.'  And  as  time  has  gone  on,  God 
has  given  me  more  light,  so  that  some  of  the  very 
things  that  once  were  difficulties  to  me,  are  now 
additional  proofs  of  the  divine  origin  of  a  religion 
which  proud  human  nature  could  never,  never  have 
originated." 

The  room  was  very  still.  The  lire  had  burned  low 
as  the  absorbing  talk  had  gone  on  only  the  ticking  of 
the  clock  and  the  distant  sound  of  Rebecca's  prepara- 
tions for  tea  broke  the  silence.  Mr.  Fleming's  voice 
had  grown  tired  and  weak,  but  presently  he  roused 
himself  to  say  a  few  words  more. 

"  I  have  told  you  all  this,  my  child,  because  in  this 
age  of  conflicting  opinions  few  thoughtful  minds  can 
entirely  escape  the  infection  of  prevailing  doubt.  And 
as  changes  are  always  liable  to  come,  and  some  may 
soon  come  to  our  life  together,  I  think  it  may  be  helpful 
to  you  hereafter  to  know  what  has  been  your  father's 
experience,  and  what  is  his  deliberate  verdict  after  so 
many  years  of  thought  and  of  trial  of  the  illusions  of 
life  without  the  true  Light.  I  might  not  be  able  to 
satisfy  Mrs.  Lane  yet  on  u  cross-examination,  and  as 


8^ 

m 


•!■' .: 


46 


SOME    DARK    DAYS. 


it  does  not  come  natural  to  me  to  express  myself  in 
her  particular  phraseology,  I  never  try  to  do  so.     But 


'  God  fulfils  himself  in  many  ways; ' 


and  I  am  more  and  more  satisfied  that  Christ's  law  of 
love  is  the  law  of  light ;  and  that  in  those  two  words, 
loving  and  following,  lies  the  essence  of  that  which  is 
variously  called  '  conversion,'  or  a  '  new  heart '  or 
practical  Christianity.  '  Rise  up  and  follow  me,'  was 
Christ's  summons  to  those  who  would  be  his  disciples, 
and  then  '•If  ye  love  me,  keep  my  commandments,* 
and  '  This  is  my  commandment,  that  ye  love  one 
another!'  And  now,  darling,  ring  for  lights  and  tea  ; 
for  I  have  talked  rather  too  much  and  I  feel  a  little 
faint." 

Mr.  Fleming  talked  no  more  that  evening,  but  Mar- 
jorie  never  forgot  that  conversation,  or  rather  her 
father's  earnest  words,  which  lingered  in  her  mind  for 
montlis  and  years  to  come.  It  made  that  mysterious 
something  called  "  conversion  "  so  much  clearer  and 
simpler  than  it  had  ever  seemed  before.  Just  to  "  fol- 
low "  Christ ;  to  try  to  do  his  will  in  loving  obedience  • 
she  could  try  to  do  that,  and  she  would.  And  when 
she  read  in  her  Testament  that  evening  about  the  man 
sick  of  palsy  whom  Christ  told  to  "  take  up  his  bed 
and  walk,"  it  flashed  upon  her  that  perhaps  it  was 
just  in  trying  to  obey  Christ  that  he  received  the  power 


SOME    DAKK    DAYS. 


47 


to  do  it.  And  the  light  that  had  shone  for  her  dear 
father  and  mother  would,  she  was  sure,  shine  for  her 
also. 

But  what  could  be  the  "  change  "  her  father  had 
hinted  at,  as  if  something  unknown  to  her  were  im- 
pending ?  Her  father,  she  was  sure,  was  growing  de- 
cidedly better.  The  doctor  no  longer  came  to  see  him 
daily,  and  when  he  did,  he  spoke  so  cheerfully,  that 
Marjorie  felt  quite  reassured.  Nettie  Lane  and  the 
other  girls  had  often  told  her  that  she  might  have  a 
step-mother  some  day  —  an  idea  which  seemed  to  her 
as  impossible  as  it  was  painful.  But  she  felt  sure  that 
her  father  could  not  have  spoken  of  her  mother  as  he 
had  done,  if  he  had  had  the  slightest  thought  of  such  a 
thing  ;  and  she  dismissed  it  from  her  mind  as  out  of 
the  question.  Whatever  the  impending  change  might 
be,  it  was  not  that.  And,  as  often  happens,  what  it 
really  was,  was  something  which  would  in  all  proba- 
bility have  never  occurred,  even  to  her  dreaming 
imagination. 


I. 


CHAPTER  III. 


u  \m 


A   NEW    DEPARTURE. 

A  FEW  days  after  that  Marjorie  brought  in  her 
father's  letters  to  the  sitting-room,  where  he  had  be- 
gun to  write  again,  though  he  was  not  as  yet  allowed 
to  leave  the  house.  One  of  the  letters  bore  a  Cana- 
dian postage  stamp,  and  the  postmark  of  Montreal, 
and  was  addressed  in  the  well-known  flowing  hand- 
writing of  her  aunt,  Mrs.  Ramsay.  Another  was  ad- 
dressed in  her  Aunt  Millie's  familiar  hand,  and 
Marjorie  carried  them  in  with  eager  expectation,  for 
such  letters  were  generally  common  property.  But 
instead  of  reading  them  to  her  at  once,  as  he  usually 
did,  Mr.  Fleming  merely  opened  them  eagerly,  and 
after  a  hasty  glance  over  their  contents,  resumed  his 
writing. 

"  Well,  father  dear,"  said  Marjorie,  in  a  disap- 
pointed tone,  "  aren't  you  going  to  tell  me  what  Aunt 
Millie  says  ?     May  I  read  her  letter  ?  " 

"  Not  just  now,  dear^"  he  replied,  and  Marjorie  no- 
ticed that  his  hand  was  trembling  a  little  ;  "  you  shall 

48 


A    NEW    DErAKTUKE. 


49 


read  both  letters  in  the  evening,  when  I  have  time  to 
talk  to  you  about  them.  But  I  can't  do  that  just 
now." 

Marjorie  went  off  to  school,  feeling  a  little  hurt, 
and  wondering  why  her  father  couldn't  at  least  have 
let  her  read  her  dear  Aunt  Millie's  letter,  when  he 
knew  how  eager  she  always  was  to  hear  from  her. 
However,  she  knew  her  father  always  had  a  good 
reason  for  anything  that  seemed  strange  to  her,  so  she 
trusted  him  now.  But  the  day  seenu'd  a  long  one, 
and  after  school  she  made  haste  to  learn  her  lessons 
before  tea,  so  that  after  tea  she  might  be  ready  as  soon 
as  her  father  was  at  leisure. 

He  did  not  write  or  study  in  the  evenings  yet,  and 
when  Marjorie  sat  down  beside  him,  and  told  him 
that  her  lessons  were  over,  he  seemed  quite  ready  for 
their  talk. 

"  I  have  a  great  deal  to  talk  to  you  about,  my  child," 
he  said,  tlirowing  his  arm  lovingly  about  her,  "  and 
the  sooner  I  begin  the  better  —  now,  I  didn't  want 
you  to  read  those  letters  this  morning,  because  I 
wanted  to  tell  you  first  what  they  were  about,  and 
I  didn't  feel  ready  to  do  it  then.  Marjorie  darling, 
your  Aunt  Mary  most  kindly  invites  you  to  come  and 
spend  the  winter  with  her  in  Montreal." 

"But,  father  dear,  I  couldn't  go  away  and  leave 
you,"  exclaimed  Marjorie  in  bewilderment. 

"My  dear  child,  I  am  afraid  that  I  must  go  and 


i'.\ 


50 


A    NEW    l)^:l^VUTUUE. 


leave  you  —  for  a  whilo,"  he  said  sadly.  "No,  don't 
be  frightened,  dear ;  the  doctor  thinks  I  am  getting  on 
nicely  ;  but  I  have  had  a  severe  shake,  and  he  thinks 
it  would  not  be  prudent  for  me  to  risk  staying  here 
through  the  winter.  He  strongly  recommends  me  to 
go  South,  and  your  Aunt  Millie  is  most  anxious  that  I 
should  go  to  her,  for  part  of  the  winter,  at  any  rate. 
Mr.  Fulton  and  I  have  been  talking  the  matter  over, 
and  he  too  endorses  the  doctor's  advice.  I  can  still 
carry  on  some  of  my  work  in  connection  with  the 
office,  even  there.  And  as  I  shall  probably  take  a 
voyage  among  the  West  India  Islands,  I  can  write 
some  articles  that  will  be  of  use  both  to  the  office  and 
to  myself.  I  should  have  liked  very  much  to  take  you 
with  me,  dear  ;  but  there  are  several  reasons  against 
that,  besides  the  additional  expense.  It  would  be  a 
serious  interruption  to  your  studies  just  now,  and  you 
would  find  it  very  hard  to  settle  down  after  it.  Then 
your  Aunt  Mary  has  always  been  anxious  to  see  more 
of  you,  and  that  you  should  get  to  know  your  cousins, 
and  1  know  it  will  be  much  the  best  thing  for  you  to 
be  under  her  care  for  a  while.  It  will  be  the  next 
thing  to  having  your  own  mother,  dear." 

Marjorie  had  listened  without  a  word,  so  far  too 
much  stunned  by  all  these  unexpected  announcements 
to  say  a  word.  She  could  scarcely  realize  at  first,  all 
that  such  a  plan  involved.  But  as  it  gradually  dawned 
upon  her  that  a  long  separation  from  her  father  was 


si 
1 


A    NEW    DKPARTURE. 


51 


really  inevitable,  her  head  sank  down  on  his  shoulder 
and  a  burst  of  tears  eanie  to  lier  relief. 

"  Don't  suppose  it  isn't  hard  for  me,  too,  darlinjy," 
said  Mr.  Fleming,  tenderly  stroking'  her  liair.  "  But 
I  am  older  than  you,  and  have  had  more  ex})erienee  in 
submitting  to  what  must  be ;  and  then  a  few  months 
don't  seem  so  long  to  me  to  look  forward,  as  when  I 
was  your  age.  But  I  am  quite  sure  you'll  have  a  very 
happy  winter  and  that  you'll  soon  learn  to  love  your 
aunt  and  eousins,  and  my  dear  old  friend   \amsay." 

And  then  he  went  on  to  tell  her  stories  of  things 
that  had  happened  when  they  were  at  college  together, 
showing  his  friend's  goodness  and  kindness  of  heart, 
and  also  his  love  of  fun,  and  l)efoic  long  Marjorie 
had  almost  forgotten  her  first  bi-oken-hearted  feeling, 
and  was  smiling  over  her  father's  narrative  of  his  own 
bewilderment  when  he  first  woke  uj)  to  the  fact  that 
Ramsay  actually  preferred  his  sister  Mary's  society  to 
his  own  I 

"  I  can  tell  you,  Marjorie,"  he  said,  '"  it  was  one  of 
the  severest  snubs  I  ever  got  in  my  life,  and  how  old 
Ramsay  did  enjoy  it ;  and  Mary,  too,  after  she  got  rid 
of  her  first  shyness." 

Mr.  Fleming  and  Marjorie  talked  a  long  time  over 
all  the  arrangements  that  had  to  be  considered.  He 
had  a  good  opportunity  for  letting  his  house  furnished 
for  a  year,  and  as  he  and  Marjorie  always  spent  part 
of   the  summer    in  some   quiet  country   quarters,   he 


;i 


m 


i^ 


■H 
1 


52 


A   NEW    DEPARTURE. 


thought  it  best  to  avail  himself  of  the  chance.  Re- 
becca would  remain  in  the  house  to  look  after  things, 
and  could  get  on  very  well  with  the  old  gentleman  and 
his  wife  who  were  to  take  the  house.  And  Mr.  Ful- 
ton had  a  friend  who  was  going  to  Montreal,  and  who 
could  be  Marjorie's  escort,  so  that  her  aunt  need  not 
take  the  long  journey,  as  she  had  offered  to  do,  in 
order  to  take  Marjorie  North. 

"  But  Robin,  father  !  "  said  Marjorie,  suddenly  look- 
ing down  at  the  shaggy  little  terrier.  "  We  can't 
leave  poor  Robin  in  the  house.  He  would  break  his 
heart." 

"  Oh !  that  reminds  me  that  you  haven't  read  your 
Aunt  Mary's  letter  yet.  I  told  her  about  Robin,  and 
how  unwilling  I  knew  you  would  be  to  leave  him  be- 
hind —  as  she  would  have  been  herself  indeed.  And 
she  says  :  *  By  all  means  let  Marjorie  bring  ''  Robin 
Adair."  He  will  find  a  warm  welcome  from  all  tne 
family,  including  our  big,  good-natured  Nero,  who  will 
patronize  him  with  the  greatest  satisfaction.'  Now 
read  the  letter  for  yourself,  and  see  if  you  don't  think 
you  will  love  your  Aunt  Mary  just  as  much  as  your 
Aunt  Millie,  when  you  come  to  know  her  as  well." 

So  Marjorie  sat  down  to  read  her  ainit's  letter  in 
which,  after  expressing  the  pleasure  with  which  she 
would  receive  her  niece,  she  went  on  to  predict  how 
much  Marjorie  would  enjoy  the  novel  experience  of  a 
Canadian  winter,   tlie   sleighing,    tobogganing,    snow- 


A    NEW    DEPARTURE. 


63 


shoeing,  and  last,  not  least,  the  wonderful  sights  of 
the  winter  carnival.  "  The  children  are  wild  about 
outdoor  sports,"  she  said,  "and  T  am  sure  the  exercise 
and  fun  will  be  very  good  for  Marjorie,  for  when  I 
saw  her  I  thouglit  that,  like  yourself,  she  read  and 
studied  too  much,  and  lived  too  dreamy  and  solitary  a 
life." 

Mrs.  Ramsay  had  paid  her  brother  a  short  visit,  on 
the  occasion  of  their  youngest  sister's  marriage,  and 
Marjorie  could  not  but  be  attracted  by  her  motherly 
manner  and  genuine  kindliness.  She  was  her  father's 
"  common-sense  sister,"  as  he  used  to  call  her,  and  he 
had  frequently  told  her  how  her  hapi)y  tranquillity  of 
disposition  had  often  been  a  true  solace  in  his  youthful 
troubles.  He  knew  that  the  influence  of  her  calm, 
bright  Christianity  and  active,  practical  life  would  be 
very  good  for  his  impulsive  and  rather  dreamy  Mar- 
iorie,  and  this  more  than  half  reconciled  him  to  the 
parting  which  he  dreaded  almost  as  much  as  she  did. 
And  it  was  pleasant,  also,  to  think  that  his  friend 
Ramsay  should  know  and  love  his  little  girl,  of  whom 
he  was  secretly  very  proud,  and  whom  he  knew  his  old 
classmate  would  appreciate. 

The  next  few  days  were  very  busy  ones.  Dr. 
Stone  was  anxious  to  get  his  patient  off  just  as  soon 
as  possible,  and  there  were  many  preparations  to  be 
made.  Rebecca,  who  at  first  almost  cried  her  eyes 
out  at  losing  "the  master  and  Miss  Marjorie,  not  to 


w 


m 


54 


A    NEW    DEPARTURE. 


mention  poor  little  Robin,"  yet  was  glad  to  stay  by 
the  old  house,  was  almost  buried  in  the  boxes  she  was 
packing,  and  the  garments  she  was  sorting  and  putting 
to  rights.  Marjorie  and  she  made  a  careful  inventory 
of  the  contents  of  the  house,  a  task  which  made  Mar- 
jorie feel  herself  of  much  use,  as  she  carefully  wrote 
down  her  list  in  a  neat  memorandum  book.  Mr. 
Fleming  went  into  the  city  when  the  weather  was  fine 
enough,  and  made  his  arrangements  at  the  office  and 
elsewhere.  One  of  his  pleasantest  errands  was  to 
leave  Marjorie's  half-eagle  —  neatly  put  up  as  it  had 
been  planned  —  in  the  hands  of  the  "  angel  "  he  had 
met  on  that  November  day,  when  his  illness  had  be- 
gun. She  looked  ill,  herself,  and  Mr.  Fleming  felt 
sure  that  the  little  gift  of  money  would  be  a  real  boon 
to  her,  if  she  would  only  use  it  in  procuring  comforts 
for  herself.  But  he  could  not  charge  her  to  do  this, 
for  he  merely  performed  the  part  of  a  messenger,  only 
saying  to  her  that  he  had  been  asked  to  hand  her  the 
package,  and  then  at  once  coming  away  without  wait- 
ing for  questions. 

Mr.  Fleming's  own  papers  had  all  to  be  arranged 
and  put  away,  and  very  soon  the  house  began  to  wear 
the  strange  and  comfortless  look  characteristic  of  a 
transition  period,  and  the  disappearance  of  the  things 
that  most  mark  the  individuality  of  the  inhabitants. 

At  length,  the  last  evening  had  come,  and  Rebecca 
with  very  red  eyes,  had  carried  away  the  tea-tray  for 


•"T-PTEWTI.'jr.r  fMEl^if t'l'J^ 


A    NEW    DEPARTURE. 


55 


the  last  time.  The  fire  burning  brightly,  alone  seemed 
unchanged,  but  the  room  otherwise  looked  very  bare 
and  formal.  Even  Robin  seemed  to  feel  the  difference, 
and  watched  Marjorie  and  her  father  with  a  wistful 
expression,  as  if  he  wanted  very  much  to  know  what 
could  be  the  matter.  All  the  preparations  were  made 
and  the  boxes  packed,  for  both  travelers  were  to  start 
on  the  morrow,  within  an  hour  or  two  of  each  other. 
Marjorie  sat  down  on  her  low  chair  by  the  fire  with 
some  sewing,  glad  to  have  something  to  do  as  an  out- 
let for  her  restlessness.  She  was  trying  to  finish  — 
before  leaving  —  one  of  the  flannel  garments  she  had 
undertaken  to  make  for  the  Dorcas  Society. 

"  You've  been  sadly  interrupted  in  your  good  in- 
tentions, dear,"  said  her  father,  smiling  at  her  deter- 
mination to  finish  her  work  at  the  last  moment. 

"  Yes,  papa.  01  !  doesn't  it  seem  a  long  time  since 
that  evening  you  read  me  the  '  Northern  Lights  ' !  "  she 
exclaimed.  "  But  Rebecca  says  she'll  do  the  rest,  and 
it'll  be  all  the  same  to  the  Dorcas.  If  I'd  only  known 
we  were  going  away,  I  might  have  worked  more  when 
you  were  ill,  but  somehow  I  couldn't  settle  down  then." 

"  No,  dear  ;  you  have  hardly  learned  that  amount  of 
self-control  yet.  But  you  are  going  to  be  a  brave  girl 
to-morrow,  are  you  not  ?  You  won't  make  it  harder 
to  part  with  you  ?  " 

Marjorie  shook  her  head,  but  her  lips  quivered,  and 
her  father  hastened  to  less  dangerous  ground. 


66 


A   NEW   DEPARTURE. 


(( 


(( 


"  I  hope,  my  child,  you  will  try  to  feel  as  if  your 
cousins  were  brothers  and  sisters.  I  am  sure  they  will 
want  to  be  good  to  you." 

Yes,  father,  but  I  hope  they  don't  hate  Americans." 
Why,  Marjorie,  what  put  that  into  your  head  ?  " 

"  Well,  you  know,  father,"  said  Marjorie,  "  that 
little  girl  we  met  at  the  Glen  House  last  summer? 
She  came  from  Montreal,  and  her  name  was  -Ada 
West." 

"  A  pretty,  fair-haired  little  damsel,  very  vain  and 
silly  ?  Yes,  I  remember  her ;  rather  a  spoilt  child,  I 
imagine,"  replied  Mr.  Fleming. 

"  Well,  she  always  used  to  say  she  hated  Americans, 
and  their  ways ;  and  that  she  never  wanted  to  have 
anything  to  do  witli  them." 

"  Why !  she  seemed  to  have  quite  a  fancy  for  you, 
notwithstanding." 

"  Oh !  she  insisted  that  I  wasn't  really  an  American 
—  she  called  it  '  Yankee.'  But  I  told  her  I  was  a 
real  American,  and  that  my  mother's  great,  great, 
great-grandfather  came  over  in  the  Mayfiower^  and 
that  my  grandfather  died  fighting  in  the  war,  and  that 
I  was  proud  of  being  an  American,  and  never  wanted 
to  be  anything  else." 

"  Well,  dear,  I  want  you  to  love  your  native  country 
and  believe  in  it.  And  you  know  I  am  a  naturalized 
American  and  love  your  mother's  country  as  much  as 
my  own  Scotland.     But  where  did  we  all  come  from 


A   NEW    DEPARTURE. 


in  the  first  place?  —  your  great,  great,  great-grand- 
father as  well  as  your  father?  But  there  is  no  reason 
why  the  children  of  the  same  mother  should  hate  each* 
other,  because  they  live  on  different  sides  of  a  river,  or 
because  some  have  been  longer  in  America  than  others. 
I  don't  suppose  Miss  Ada  knew  what  the  Mayflower 
was." 

"  No,  she  said  she  didn't  know,  and  didn't  care." 
"  Yes,  I  thought  so.  These  violent  dislikes  and 
prejudices  are  generally  signs  of  thoughtless  ignor- 
ance. And  the  rich,  self-indulgent  people  one  is  apt 
to  meet  at  such  places  are  not  the  best  people  to  take 
as  specimens  of  any  country.  People  often  make  this 
mistake  about  Americans.  But  your  cousins  are  not 
like  that,  I  know  very  well.  Your  Uncle  Ramsay 
has  too  big  and  noble  a  heart  to  allow  such  prejudices 
in  his  family.  How  well  I  remember  how  he  and  I 
used  to  hurry  down  Princes  Street  in  the  mornings,  to 
get  the  latest  news  of  the  American  War,  when  we 
were  Edinburgh  students,  and  the  battles  he  helped 
me  to  fight  with  the  fellows  who  were  so  down  on  the 
North  then ;  and  the  beautiful  letter  he  wrote  me 
when  he  heard  that  I  was  going  to  marry  the  daughter 
of  a  true,  brave  patriot  who  had  fallen  in  that  terrible 
yet  heroic  war  —  heroic  on  both  sides,  as  every  one 
can  afford  to  admit  now." 

Marjorie's  eyes  glistened,  for  she  had  always  been 
proud  of    this  unknown   soldier-grandfather ;    indeed 


it 

3 


!  ii 


58 


A   NEW    DEPARTURE. 


i 


iijii 


she  was,  perhaps,  privately  guilty  of  a  little  ancestor 
worship. 

"  But  remember,  Marjorie,  no  one  can  truly  love  his 
country,  who  hates  any  other." 

Marjorie  looked  surprised,  and  inclined  to  question 
this  strange  proposition. 

"  I  know  some  people  call  it  loving  their  country, 
when  they  abuse  and  attack  others,"  continued  Mr. 
Fleming,  "  but  it  is  really  only  loving  themselves.  They 
love  their  country  just  because  it  is  something  that 
belongs  to  them,  and  when  they  lose  their  selfish  inter- 
est in  it,  they  soon  show  how  deep  is  their  love.  You 
have  read  Coriolanus,  Do  you  remember  how  when 
his  pride  and  self-love  were  wounded,  he  turned  against 
the  country  he  had  been  so  proud  to  serve  — 


i! 


"  '  No  more  infected  with  m}'  country's  love '  — 

and  was  only  prevented  by  the  entreaties  of  his  wife 
and  mother  from  destroying  it  ?  So  Americans  used 
to  boast  of  their  country  ;  but  when  opposition  of  in- 
terest and  opinion  arose,  they  split  into  two  parts,  each 
for  a  time  hating  the  other  more  than  they  could  a 
foreign  enemy.  No,  Marjorie  I  true  love  never  hates, 
any  more  than  heat  can  suddenly  turn  to  cold.  It 
must  go  on  loving,  though  human  love  must  grow  less 
intense  as  it  goes  farther  from  home.  And  true 
patriotism,  in  seeking  the  real  good  of  its  country, 


A    NEW    DEPARTURE, 


59 


must  seek  the  good  of  all  others,  too.     Even  an  old 
heathen  poet  could  write  the  noble  line  : 

"  '  I  am  a  man,  and  I  hold  nothing  human  as  foreign  to  me.' 


"And 


still : 


my  country's  poet  has  sung,  more  sweetly 


"  '  Then  let  us  pray  that  come  it  may, 
As  come  it  will,  for  a'  that, 
That  man  to  man,  the  world  o'er. 
Shall  brothers  be  an'  a'  that.' 


That  is  true  patriotism  and  true  cosmopolitanism  or, 
rather  —  for  that  is  a  very  long  word  —  true  brother- 
hood." 

"  Why,  I  never  thought  of  that  before,"  said  Mar- 
jorie,  thoughtfully. 

"  No,  dear,  you  could  hardly  be  expected  to  have 
thought  yet,  of  all  the  things  we  older  folks  have  had 
time  to  think  about.  But  don't  forget  it,  dear.  It 
may  save  you  from  getting  into  silly  and  vulgar  and 
unchristian  disputes.  And,  Marjorie,  one  thing  more 
let  me  say.  The  root  of  true  brotherhood  is,  to 
know  and  love  our  Heavenly  Father.  If  we  do  that, 
we  can't  hate  any  of  his  children.  One  of  the  things 
that  has  taught  me  to  know  him,  was  my  growing, 
deepening  love  for  you  1  I  came  to  feel  that  that  love 
could  only  come  from  the  source  of  all  love,  as  of  all 


60 


A   NEW    DEPARTURE. 


life.  Marjorie,  whatever  you  do,  let  no  one  make 
you  believe  anything  but  that  God  is  Love  ;  and,  just 
because  he  is  liove,  seeking  to  save  us  from  sin,  our 
worst  enemy,  but  always  loving  us  with  a  tender,  faith- 
ful, untiring  love,  infinitely  more  tender  than  any 
human  love,  which  can  only  faintly  reflect  his." 

"  Yes,  father  dear,"  said  Marjorie.  "  I'll  always 
remember  that  when  I  think  of  you." 

"  And  remember  too,  darling,  that  no  part  of  your 
life  should  be  lived  apart  from  God.  People  divide 
life  far  too  much  into  '  religious '  and  '  secular '  things. 
But  our  life  touches  God  at  all  points,  and  must  do  so 
save  in  wrong.  In  your  lessons  and  daily  interests, 
yes,  even  in  your  amusements,  you  come  in  contact 
with  things  that  are  God's,  and  can  live  always  in  the 
sense  of  his  presence,  if  you  seek  to  do  so.  When 
you  have  not  me  to  come  to,  take  all  your  troubles  and 
difficulties  to  your  Heavenly  Father.  If  you  can't  do 
that,  be  sure  there  is  something  wrong,  and  go  to  him 
to  set  it  right.  This  will  save  you  from  many  mis- 
takes and  much  unhappiness,  and  will  show  you  that 
the  true  nobility  and  beauty  of  life  lies  in  living  it  as 
seeing  him  who  is  invisible.  I  don't  want  your  path 
to  him  to  be  so  long  and  thorny  as  mine  has  been. 
And  remember  too,  that  we  know  him  best  in  the 
tenderness  and  truth  —  the  ever  present  love  of  him 
who  was  '  bone  v.f  our  bone,  and  flesh  of  our  flesh  ' ; 
our  Elder  Brother. 


A    NEW    DEPARTURE. 


61 


"  You  know  those  lines  from  my  dear  old  Whittier, 
that  I  have  read  to  you  sometimes : 

•' '  That  all  our  weakness,  pain  and  doubt 
A  great  compassion  clasps  about.' 

And  these   others,  from   his  '  Miriam,'  that   I    have 
learned  to  say  from  my  own  heart : 

"  '  We  search  the  world  for  t.'uth ;  we  cull 
The  good,  the  true,  the  beautiful. 
From  graven  stone  and  written  scroll, 
From  all  old  ttowertields  of  the  soul ; 
And,  weary  seekers  of  the  best, 
We  come  back  laden  from  our  quest, 
To  find  that  all  the  sages  said 
Is  in  the  Book  our  mothers  read, 
And  all  our  treasures  of  old  thought 
In  his  harmonious  fullness  wrought 
Who  gathers  iu  one  sheaf  complete 
The  scattered  blades  of  God's  sown  wheat, 
The  common  growth  that  maketh  good 
His  all-embracing  Fatherhood.' 

"  As  you  grow  older  you'll  understand  that  better, 
and  love  the  lines,  as  I  do,  for  their  own  sake.  And 
now,  my  dear  child,  it's  getting  late,  and  we  have  to 
be  up  early.  So  now  we  won't  say  another  word  but 
good-night." 

There  was  a  long,  fervent  embrace,  and  then  they 
parted,  trying  not  to  think  how  long  it  would  be  be- 
fore they  could  say  "  good-night  "  again.     . 


^>i...'.i:"'  s  '"jf--^ 


CHAPTER  IV. 


NORTHWARD. 


It'' 

i; 


li 


Mr.  Fleming  had  arranged  to  depart  on  the  same 
day  witli  Marjorie,  by  a  train  leaving  only  an  hour  or 
two  after  that  b)^  which  she  and  her  escort  were  to 
start.  They  went  into  the  city  by  the  earliest  morn- 
ing train,  after  a  hurried  breakfast  before  daylight  of 
the  gray  December  morning.  The  parting  words  were 
said  to  the  tearful  Rebecca,  and  they  were  whirling  to- 
wards New  York  before  Marjorie  could  realize  that 
the  journey  was  begun.  Robin  seemed  overpowered 
by  surprise  at  the  strange  proceeding,  and  cowered 
down  in  a  corner  beside  Marjorie's  satchel,  to  see 
what  would  happen  next.  The  conductor  talked  to 
Mr.  Fleming  about  his  journey  and  his  intended  ab- 
sence, while  Marjorie  wiped  away  some  tears  that  she 
could  not  quite  keep  back,  notwithstanding  her  deter- 
mination to  be  "  brave." 

,  In  New  York  there  was  a  hurried  transfer  from  one 
station  to  another ;  the  arrangements  about  luggage, 
the  bustle  and  noise  of  the  drive  through  the  long  New 

62 


NOKTHWAKD. 


63 


York  streets,  the  crowded  station,  the  brief  talks  with 
Mr.  Field,  her  escort,  the  few  bright  parting  words 
said  by  her  father,  when  she  and  liobin  —  the  latter 
by  special  permission — were  comfortably  settled  in 
the  Montreal  train,  and  then,  before  she  could  realize 
what  was  happening,  the  locomotive  whistled,  her 
father  gave  her  the  last  kiss  and  jumped  off  the  train, 
and,  as  he  took  off  his  hat  and  waved  it  toward  her, 
they  glided  off  and  the  parting  was  over. 

Mr.  Field  kindly  left  Marjorie  to  herself  for  a  little 
while,  till  the  tears  that  had  been  kept  back  with  such 
an  effort,  had  had  their  way,  not  a  few  of  them  falling 
on  the  shaggy  coat  of  the  still  astonished  Kobin,  whom 
Marjorie  hugged  close  to  her  as  if  she  was  in  danger 
of  losing  this  last  link  with  her  home  life.  For  the  first 
hour  or  two  she  felt  thoroughly  and  utterly  homesick. 
It  seemed  to  her  that  she  could  never  be  happy  till  she 
should  see  her  father  again.  Then  her  mind  went 
back  to  his  earnest  words  of  the  evening  before,  and 
she  found  the  soothing  solace  that  comes  to  each  one 
of  us  in  remembering  that  those  who  are  separated 
from  us  are  not  separated  from  our  Heavenly  Father, 
and  from  commending  them,  simply  but  earnestly  in 
our  hearts  to  that  ever  loving  care.  Nor  did  she  for- 
get Rebecca,  left  lonely  in  the  house  to  prepare  for 
the  arrival  of  strangers,  and  just  then  "fretting"  a 
good  deal,  as  she  would  herself  have  called  it. 

By  degrees  Marjorie's  impressible  nature  began  to 


64 


NOUTllWAKD. 


assert  itself,  and  she  began  to  look  out  with  some  in- 
terest at  the  country  through  whicli  she  was  passing : 
the  villas  and  villages,  the  glimpses  of  river  and 
mountain,  beautiful  even  in  the  cold  grayness  of  De- 
cember. Mr.  Field,  in  his  desire  to  entertain  her, 
brought  her  two  or  three  morning  papers,  at  which 
Marjorie  tried  to  glance,  out  of  courtesy ;  he  also 
bought  for  her  —  to  her  secret  annoyance  —  a  packet 
of  candy  from  the  ubiquitous  "newsboy"  and  ottered 
her  her  choice  from  the  parcel  of  gaily  bound  volumes 
laid  down  by  her  side,  when  the  boy  again  made  his 
inevitable  round.  But  Marjorie  could  truthfully  say 
that  she  did  not  want  to  read  just  then,  and  in  watch- 
ing the  ever  changing  panorama  without,  and  mentally 
trying  to  follow  her  father's  movements  as  he  set  out 
on  his  southward  journey,  the  hours  crept  on,  not 
so  slowly  after  all.  Dinner  made  a  break  not  unwel- 
come to  either  herself  or  Robin.  Then  there  were 
changes  of  cars,  and  cities  and  towns  to  rush  through, 
and  by  and  by  the  short  December  day  began  to  draw 
to  a  close  as  they  were  nearing  the  Canadian  frontier. 
It  was  some  little  time  after  Mr.  Field's  announce- 
ment that  they  were  in  Canada  now,  that  a  lady 
entered  the  train  accompanied  by  a  very  young  girl, 
and  took  vacant  seats  quite  near  Marjorie's,  on  the 
other  side  of  the  car.  Marjorie  was  looking  with  ad- 
miration at  their  rich  sealskin  jackets  and  fur  muff- 
lings,  when,  as  they  laid  aside  some  of  their  wraps  she 


NOKTHWAKD. 


65 


gave  a  little  start  of  recognition.  She  could  not  be 
mistaken,  the  fair  hair  and  lively  chatter  were  certainly 
those  of  Ada  West,  and  the  handsome  and  handsomely 
dressed  matron  with  her  must  be  her  mother,  so  much 
did  Ada  resemble  her.  She  was  too  shy,  however,  to 
make  any  advances,  and  sat  jn-rfectly  still,  watching 
the  two  with  some  eagerness,  till  Ada,  whose  quick 
eyes  were  not  likely  to  leave  anything  or  any  one 
about  her  unnoticed,  glanced  at  Marjorie  with  a 
scrutinizing  glance,  which  speedily  changed  into  one 
of  surprise. 

*'  Why,  I  do  believe  it's  Marjorie  Fleming,"  she  ex- 
claimed, darting  from  her  seat  to  Marjorie,  and  over- 
whelming her  with  questions,  while  her  mother  looked 
on  with  an  inquiring  and  critical  air.  Mr.  Field  had 
just  then  gone  into  the  smoking-car  for  a  chat  with  a 
friend,  so  that  Marjorie  was  left  alone. 

*'  Mamma,"  said  Ada,  as  soon  as  she  had  extracted 
from  Marjorie  some  information  as  to  what  she  was 
doing  there,  "  this  is  Marjorie  Fleming,  that  I  told  you 
about  —  you  know  I  met  her  when  I  was  traveling  last 
summer  with  auntie  —  and  how  clever  she  was,  and  how 
her  father  wrote  poetry,  and  all  sorts  of  things." 

"  Ada !  Ada,  how  you  do  talk ! "  exclaimed  her 
mother.  *'  How  do  you  do.  Miss  Fleming  ? "  she 
continued,  somewhat  stiffly ;  "  are  you  going  to 
Mo     real?" 

^  .irjorie  explained  as  briefly  as  she  could,  and  then 


G6 


NORTHWARD. 


Mrs.  West  having  done  all  she  thought  necessary,  re- 
clined  comfortably  in  her  corner,  leaving  Ada  to 
chatter  away  to  her  heart's  content. 

"Mamma  and  I  have  been  pa;yiig  a  little  visit  to 
my  aunt.  I  was  awfully  sorry  to  come  away,  for  I 
always  have  lots  of  fun  there.  But  mamma  said  if  I 
didn't  come  home  now,  it  wouldn't  be  worth  while  to 
go  back  to  school  before  Christmas.  Well,  I'm  aw- 
fully glad  you're  going  to  stay  in  Montreal  all  winter  ; 
we  can  have  such  a  nice  time  ;  and  there'll  be  the 
carnival,  you  know  —  that's  such  fun.  Did  you  ever 
see  an  ice  palace?  We've  had  two  before  this,  and 
they  say  this  one  will  be  the  best  yet.  And  so  you're 
going  to  the  Ramsays'V  I  know  Marion  and  Alan 
Ramsay  quite  well.  Marion's  ever  so  much  older  than 
me,  so  of  course  she's  not  in  my  set  at  all ;  but  Gerald 
knows  Alan  very  well,  so  I  see  him  pretty  often,  and 
he's  ever  so  nice  and  jolly.  Mamma,"  she  ran  on^ 
scarcely  leaving  Marjorie  room  for  the  briefest  replies, 
"  Marjorie's  going  to  stay  at  Dr.  Ramsay's  —  Mrs. 
Ramsay's  her  aunt.  She  told  me  that  last  summer, 
and  I  tjld  her  you  knew  Mrs.  Ramsay  quite  well." 

"  Yes,  of  course  I  know  Mrs.  Ramsay,  and  every 
one  knows  Dr.  Ramsay's  a  very  clever  doctor,"  replied 
Mrs.  West,  whose  indifferent  and  somewhat  patroniz- 
ing manner  impressed  Marjorie  somewhat  unpleasantly, 
she  scarcely  knew  why. 

"Yes,"  continued  Ada,  in  a  lower  tone,  "Gerald 


NORTHWARD. 


67 


says  Dr.  Ramsay's  awfully  clever.  He  once  came  to 
our  house  for  a  consultation  wlieu  my  eldest  brother 
was  dreadfully  ill.  Gerald  and  Alan  go  to  school 
together.  T  daresay  you  and  I  will  go  to  school  to- 
gether.    What  school  are  you  going  to  ?  " 

Marjorie  replied  that  her  father  had  left  that  alto- 
gether with  her  aunt  to  decide. 

'*  Well,  then,  I'm  almost  sure  she'll  let  you  go  to 
my  school,  for  every  one  says  it's  the  best  in  Montreal. 
And  that'll  be  ever  so  nice,  for  then  I  can  get  you  to 
help  me  with  my  lessons.  It's  an  awful  bore  to  learn 
lessons,  but  I  know  you  don't  mind  it,  you're  so  clever. 
It  must  be  nice  to  be  so  clever  as  you  are." 

Notwithstanding  the  liveliness  and  cordiality  of  this 
unexpected  traveling  companion,  Marjorie,  whose  heart 
was  still  rather  heavy  and  preoccupied,  had  had  time 
to  grow  somewhat  tired  of  the  ceaseless  flow  of  ques- 
tions and  remarks,  by  the  time  Mr.  Field  returned  to 
tell  her  that,  in  a  short  time,  now,  they  would  be  in 
Montreal.  He  seemed  much  pleased  to  find  that  Mar- 
jorie had  found  a  friend  of  her  own  age  who  could 
talk  to  her  so  much  better  than  he  could,  so  he  took 
his  seat  at  a  little  distance  to  look  over  a  Montreal 
paper  he  had  just  bought  in  the  train.  As  he  did  so 
he  remarked :  "  It's  a  pretty  sharp  night  outside. 
The  Northern  Lights  are  very  bright,  too.  I  expect 
you'll  know  you've  got  a  good  way  North  when  you 
get  out  of  the  train." 


mm 


J- 


•11 


f 


-11 


68 


NORTHWARD. 


Poor  Marjorie !  the  mere  mention  of  the  Northern 
Lights  almost  upset  her,  so  vividly  did  it  bring  back 
the  thought  of  her  father,  now  so  far  away.  But  it 
brought  memories,  too,  that  helped  to  console  her. 
Meantime,  Ada  and  her  mother  had  begun  to  gather 
up  their  wrappings,  and  Marjorie  was  counseled  to 
muffle  up  well. 

"•  You  don't  know  how  cold  it  is  in  Montreal  iu 
winter  I  You'll  have  to  get  some  furs  ;  you  never  can 
get  on  in  our  winters  with  a  hat  like  that.  Why! 
is  that  your  dog  ?  "  added  Ada,  as  Marjorie,  in  rising, 
woke  up  Robin,  who  had  been  sound  asleep  in  a 
corner. 

Marjorie  explained  that  Robin,  as  well  as  herself, 
had  been  invited  to  Montreal. 

"  Well,  isn't  that  funny  !  Look,  mamma !  Mar- 
jorie has  brought  her  dog  with  her,  too.  Her  aunt 
said  she  might.  Isn't  he  sweet?  He's  almost  like 
Cousin  Ethel's  little  Skye.    Where  did  you  get  him  ?  " 

Marjorie  replied  that  he  had  been  given  to  her 
father  by  a  great  friend  of  his  who  had  brought  him 
from  Scotland. 

"  Well,  you'll  have  to  take  awfully  good  care  of 
him,  or  he'll  be  stolen.  Gerald  had  such  a  lovely  dog 
stolen  once.  Who  do  you  suppose  will  come  to  meet 
you  ?  Most  likely  they'll  send  Alan.  And  Gerald's 
sure  to  come  to  meet  us.  So  I  can  tell  him  you're 
here,  and  Alan  won't  miss  you  —  for  how  could  he 


NORTHWARD. 


69 


know  you  when  he  has  never  seen  you  ?  There  now, 
look  out  if  you  can ;  we're  just  across  the  Victoria 
Bridge." 

Marjorie  tried  to  catch  a  glimpse  of  what  was  with- 
out. She  could  see  very  little,  however  —  only  a  dim, 
white  expanse  around,  with  a  long  stretch  of  twinkling- 
lights  to  the  right,  which  Ada  told  her  was  Montreal. 
Then  they  glided  into  the  great  terminus  of  Point  St. 
Charles,  and  a  few  minutes  after  the  train  drew  up 
beside  the  long  platform  of  the  Bonaventure  station. 
.  Mr.  Field  assisted  Mrs.  West  and  Ada,  as  well  as 
Marjorie,  to  alight,  and  then  they  stood  watching  the 
bustling  scene  and  the  people  who  were  looking  for 
their  friends  along  the  line  of  cars. 

"  Oh !  there's  Gerald,"  exclaimed  Ada,  as  a  tall, 
slight  lad  in  a  fur-trimmed  overcoat  came  swiftly 
toward  them,  scrutinizing  the  various  groups  as  he 
passed.  "  And  there's  Dr.  Ramsay  looking  for  you  — 
look !  that  tall  man  in  the  beaver  coat  and  cap. 
Now,  isn't  it  well  I'm  here  to  point  him  out  to  you? 
O,  Gerald !  "  she  went  on,  as  the  lad  greeted  his 
mother  and  sister,  "  Dr.  Ramsay's  looking  for  his 
niece.  You'd  better  tell  him  she's  here  with  us  ; 
Miss  Fleming,  Gerald." 

Gerald  bowed,  and  went  off  at  once,  and  returned 
directly  with  Dr.  Ramsay,  who  gave  Marjorie  a  warm 
welcome,  in  a  kind,  cheery  Scotch  voice,  and  heartily 
thanked  her  escort  for  the  care  he  had  taken   of  her. 


I  ll'  f 


Kt 


70 


NORTHWARD. 


u 


"  I  was  looking  for  a  little  girl  all  alone,"  he  said, 
smiling,  "  so  I  was  led  astray  by  seeing  you  with  Miss 
West.  I  had  no  idea  you  had  acquaintances  here 
already." 

Mrs.  West  explained  that  her  daughter  had  met 
Marjorie  while  traveling  the  previous  summer,  and 
then,  after  many  promises  from  Ada  to  come  and  see 
Marjorie  soon,  they  parted,  to  look  after  thei?  luggage 
and  see  it  taken  off  to  the  waiting  sleighs. 

"  Your  aunt  would  have  come  to  meet  you  herself, 
Marjorie,"  said  Dr.  Ramsay,  after  they  had  said  a 
cordial  adieu  to  Mr.  Field,  who  promised  to  look 
them  up  before  leaving  town,  "  but  she  has  a  slight 
cold,  and  I  thought  she  had  better  stay  at  home ;  so  I 
undertook  to  find  you.  Luckily,  I  was  disengaged, 
and  able  to  drive  down  for  you  myself.  Alan  is  hold- 
ing my  horse,  so  we'll  go  out  at  once  and  I'll  give  him 
your  check  and  get  him  to  look  after  your  trunk ;  it 
makes  so  much  delay.     You've  got  your  dog  safe,  I 


see. 


They  soon  reached  the  doctor's  snug  little  cutter, 
where  Marjorie  was  duly  introduced  to  her  cousin 
Alan,  who  looked  a  very  big  boy  in  the  blanket  coat 
and  blue  tuque  that  so  many  Moi  "eal  boys  delight  to 
wear  in  winter. 

"  All  right,  father,"  he  said  briskly,  as  he  took  the 
check,  and  went  off  whistling  merrily,  to  look  after 
the  trunk,   while   Dr.   Ramsay  stowed  Marjorie  and 


Imi 


NORTHWARD. 


71 


Robin,  whom  she  had  been  holding  tight  in  her  arms, 
down  among  the  soft  fur  robes  of  the  low  cutter. 

"  Poor  little  fellow !  "  he  said,  as  he  patted  Robin's 
soft  head,  "  so  you've  lost  your  master  for  a  while. 
Your  father  was  always  a  lover  of  dogs,  Marjorie,"  he 
said,  as  they  drove  off.  "  I  remember  him  of  old,  with 
two  or  three  trotting  at  his  heels.  He  was  so  proud 
of  knowing  the  original  *■  Rab.'  Of  course  you've  read 
'  Rab,'  Marjorie  ?  Your  father  and  I  used  to  devour 
everything  that  my  dear  old  professor,  John  Brown, 
wrote,  and  I  wasn't  a  bit  surprised  when  I  heard  he 
called  you  '  Pet  Marjorie.'  " 

The  tears  started  to  Marjorie's  eyes  as  she  heard 
her  father's  pet  name  for  her  quoted,  but  it  made  her 
feel  as  if  Dr.  Ramsay  was  an  old  friend ;  and  he  kept 
her  busy  looking  at  the  various  objects  of  interest 
clearly  visible  in  the  bright  glare  of  the  electric  light, 
which  almost  totally  eclipsed  the  soft  glow  of  a  bril- 
liant Aurora  that  threw  into  bold  relief  the  dark  hill 
before  them,  rising  boldly  against  the  northei'u  sky. 

"  There's  the  Windsor,"  he  said,  as  they  passed  the 
great  hotel  block  with  its  shining  windows.  "  And 
there's  the  site  of  the  ice  palace ;  they're  just  begin- 
ning the  foundations.  And  that's  what  we  Montrealers 
call  our  'mountain,'"  he  added,  laughing,  "though 
when  your  father  and  I  were  boys,  we  would  only 
have  called  it  a  brae." 

It  was  impossible  to  resist  the  influence  of  Dr.  Ram- 


•1,1! 


;  iiiui 


li:  "^ 


72 


NORTHWARD. 


say's  cheery  spirit,  as  indeed  many  of  his  patients  had 
found  out,  for  his  brightness  and  kindliness  cheered 
many  a  sick  room,  like  a  veritable  '•'  light  shining  in 
darkness."  His  repeated  references  to  her  father 
had  the  effect  he  desired ;  of  making  her  feel  at  home 
with  him  at  once.  Then  it  was  inspiriting  in  itself  to 
glide  so  swiftly  over  the  white  snow-clad  streets  to  the 
merry  jingle  of  sleigh-bells  in  all  directions,  through 
the  keen  frosty  air  in  which  the  stars  seemed  to  glitter 
like  diamonds  of  rarest  luster. 

"  Here  we  are,  then,"  said  the  doctor,  reining  up  his 
spirited  little  horse  at  a  door  in  a  long  row  or  "  ter- 
race "  of  stone-fronted  houses,  on  one  of  the  streets 
running  up  toward  the  mountain.  "  Here,  give  me 
Robin,  now  ;  that's  right."  And  by  the  time  Marjorie 
reached  the  door  it  was  thrown  open,  revealing  the 
warm,  lighted  hall  within,  and  a  lady  who  stood  wait- 
ing to  give  Marjorie  a  motherly  welcome. 

"  Now,  Marion  will  take  you  upstairs,"  said  Mrs. 
Ramsay,  whose  tranquil  manner  and  peculiarly  sweet 
voice  strongly  attracted  Marjorie.  "  And  you  will 
come  down  as  soon  as  you  get  your  wraps  off,  and 
have  some  supper." 

Marion  was  a  blooming  girl  of  eighteen,  tall  like 
her  father,  but  with  her  mother's  brown  hair  and  soft 
dark  eyes,  with  something,  too,  of  the  matronly  and 
protecting  air  which  is  often  noticeable  in  a  helpful 
elder  sister.     She  put  her  arm  kindly  around  Marjorie 


NOKTHWARb. 


73 


as  she  showed  her  the  way  to  the  neat  little  room 
which  had  been  prepared  for  her,  and  helped  to  re- 
move her  outdoor  wrappings,  with  a  quiet  cousinly 
frankness  that  made  Marjorie  feel  at  once  as  if  she 
were  no  stranger. 

"  My  room's  just  next  to  yours,"  she  said,  "  and  we 
can  talk  through  the  wall  when  we  choose.  But 
mother  thought  you  would  like  best  to  have  a  room  to 
yourself,  as  you  had  always  been  accustomed  to  it." 

It  looked  a  little  strange  to  Marjorie,  who  had  had 
one  room  for  her  own  ever  since  she  could  remember, 
and  this  one  seemed  rather  small  at  first.  But  she 
thanked  her  cousin,  saying  that  she  was  sure  she 
should  be  very  comfortable,  and  the  two  girls  went 
downstairs  arm  in  arm. 

Dr.  Ramsay  met  her  at  the  dining-room  door,  and 
courteously  led  her  into  the  cheerful  room  with  a 
bright  fire  burning,  and  a  light  supper  laid  for  the 
traveler.  "  You  and  I  are  going  to  have  supper  to- 
gether," he  said,  smiling,  "  for  I  have  been  out  all  the 
evening,  and  am  as  hungry  as  a  hawk.  The  rest  don't 
indulge  in  suppers,  for  I  think  people  are  better  with- 
out them,  as  a  general  rule.  But  you  know  doctors 
are  privileged  people,  who  are  quite  superior  to  their 
own  rules." 

There  was  something  very  infectious  in  Dr.  Kam- 
say's  clear,  almost  boyish  laugh,  and  Marjorie  laughed 
too,  and    began   to  feel  some  appetite,  which  a   few 


> 


.  .(3 


74 


NORTHWARD. 


minutes  before,  she  would  have  disclaimed.  He  was  a 
tall,  athletic  man,  with  wavy  auburn  hair  falling  across 
a  broad,  white  forehead,  and  sea-blue  eyes  which 
seemed  to  have  a  gl«^am  in  them  of  the  old  Danish 
sea-kings,  some  of  whose  blood  was  in  his  veins. 
Kindly  eyes  they  were,  which,  however,  could  be  very 
keen  or  even  stern  when  occasion  required.  Just  now 
they  were  bent  with  affectionate  scrutiny  on  Marjorie, 
to  see  how  much  he  could  trace  in  her  of  the  linea- 
ments or  expression  of  his  old  friend,  Jolm  Fleming. 
Marjorie  was  thinking  what  a  contrast  he  was  to  her 
own  father,  with  his  slight  nervous  figure  and  earnest 
face,  so  expressive  of  study  and  thought,  and  rather 
sad  when  in  repose,  though  often  so  bright  in  conver- 
sation. Mrs.  Ramsay  had  been  thoughtfully  attend- 
ing to  Robin's  comfort,  and  giving  liim  his  supper.  Tt 
was  a  pleasure  to  her  to  care  for  her  brother's  little 
favorite,  and  the  creature  seemed  to  recognize  her  as  a 
friend,  and  took  to  her  with  a  readiness  which  aston- 
ished Marjorie.  She  and  Marion  helped  Marjorie 
and  her  uncle  to  the  delicious  ham  and  bread  and  but- 
ter and  coffee  —  made  very  weak  by  the  doctor's 
order,  so  that  it  might  not  keej)  the  child  awake  ;  and 
presently  Alan  came  in,  looking  not  quite  so  big  when 
his  blan.^et  overcoat  was  off,  but  much  more  like  his 
father  than  his  mother,  with  his  blue  eyes  and  fair 
complexion  brightened  with  a  rich  color  from  the 
keen,  frosty  air. 


NORTHWARD. 


75 


"  And  how  did  you  happen  to  get  acquainted  with 
Ada  West?"  asked  Mrs.  Ramsay,  when  they  had 
talked  over  Marjorie's  journey  and  arrival. 

Marjorie  explained  how  she  had  met  her  at  a  favo- 
rite summer  resort  near  which  her  father  and  she  had 
spent  some  time  the  previous  summer. 

"  And  were  you  great  friends  ? "  Mrs.  Eamsay 
asked. 

"  Well,  we  saw  each  other  very  often,"  replied  Mar- 
jorie, a  little  doubtfully ;  "  but  she  iised  to  say  she 
hated  Americans." 

Dr.  Ramsay  laughed  heartily,  as  did  Alan  also,  who 
exclaimed :  "  Isn't  that  just  like  Ada  !  She  always 
says  whatever  comes  into  her  head,  no  matter  what. 
And  then  sha's  so  pretty,  people  don't  seem  to 
mind." 

"  Well,  she  doesn't  seem  to  hate  you,"  said  Dr. 
Ramsay  ;  "  and  she  really  is  a  good-hearted  little  girl, 
only  rather  spoilt  by  getting  everything  she  wants, 
poor  child  I  She's  developing  fast  into  a  society  belle, 
like  her  mother." 

"  They're  awfully  rich  people,"  said  Alan,  for  Mar- 
jorie's benefit ;  "  and  they  have  a  fine  house  on  Sher- 
brooke  Street,  just  below  the  '  mountain.'  Gerald's  in 
my  class  at  school,  and  he  has  a  pony  of  his  own,  and 
as  much  pocket-money  as  he  wants  to  spend." 

"  Yes,  and  it's  a  great  wonder  that  he's  as  nice  and 
steady  a  boy  as  he  is,  considering  how  he  has  been 


i  !i 


I 


76 


NORTHWARD. 


I 

!i4 ' 


brought  up,"  said  his  father.  "  When  you've  got  to 
my  age,  Alan,  my  boy,  you'll  understand  better  that 
it's  anything  but  a  good  thing  for  a  boy  to  get  all  he 
wants  so  easily.  It's  a  good  thing  for  a  man,  as  well  as 
a  horse,  to  '  bear  the  yoke  in  his  youth,'  and  be  well 
broken  in,  too,  as  he  has  got  to  be  sooner  or  later. 
So  don't  be  envious  of  poor  Gerald.  If  he  doesn't  fol- 
low in  his  elder  brother's  footsteps  it'll  be  a  wonder." 

"  Oh  !  I  don't  want  to  change  with  Gerald,"  said 
Alan,  as  he  drank  off  the  cup  of  hot  coffee  his  mother 
had  handed  him ;  "  though  he  is  a  good  fellow,  and  I 
wouldn't  mind  having  his  pony." 

"  Be  thankful  you  have  old  Chester  to  drive  some- 
times, and  your  toboggan  to  ride,"  said  his  mother, 
smiling. 

"You  never  went  down  a  toboggan-slide,  did  you, 
Marjorie  ?  "  inquired  Alan.  "  Well,  wait  till  we  get 
a  little  more  snow,  and  then  you'll  see  what  speed  is." 

"  Well,  Marjorie  has  finished  her  supper  now,  and 
it's  time  she  went  to  rest  after  her  long  journey.  I 
sent  the  younger  ones  to  bed  before  you  arrived,  dear," 
she  added  to  Marjorie.  "They  wanted  very  much  to 
wait  till  you  came,  but  I  thought  you  would  have 
enough  new  faces  for  one  evening,  so  they  will  be  all 
impatience  to  see  Cousin  Marjorie  in  the  morning." 

"  »Tust  bring  the  Bible  to  me,  Alan,"  said  Dr. 
Ramsay.  "You  know  I  was  out  at  prayer-time,  and 
so  were  Alan  and  Marjorie." 


NORTHWARD. 


77 


So  the  Bible  was  brought ;  the  doctor  read  his  favo- 
rite evening  psalm,  "  The  Lord  is  my  Shepherd,"  and 
then,  in  a  few  simple,  earnest  words  of  prayer,  com- 
mended all  present,  and  all  dear  ones  distant,  to  the 
care  of  that  good  Shepherd  whose  vigilance  never 
sleeps. 

As  Marjorie  laid  her  tired  head  down  on  soft  pillows, 
she  could  not  feel  herself  so  far  away  from  home.  She 
could  scarcely  realize,  indeed,  that  that  very  morning 
she  had  awoke  in  her  old  familiar  room,  and  had  break- 
fasted with  her  father,  between  whom  and  herself  there 
were  now  so  many  miles  of  distance  and  darkness. 
But  she  felt  as  if  the  consciousness  of  a  Father's  lov- 
ing care  were  around  her  still,  and  with  this  restful 
feeling  in  her  heart  she  quickly  fell  into  a  sound,  al- 
most dreamless  slumber. 


a 

lit  'I 


■f'l 


*^1 


1'^  y 


CHAPTER  V. 


I  N      M  ()  X  T  REAL, 


^i;.; 


Marjorie  was  awakened  next  morning  by  the 
s«;ratehing  of  Robin's  little  paws,  he  having  come  to 
look  for  his  young  mistress  in  this  strange  house. 
Then  she  became  conscious  of  the  sharp  patter  of  fine 
snowflakes  against  the  window  glass,  and  looking  out 
between  her  curtains,  saw  a  pale  misty  grayness 
with  white  puffs  of  drifting  snow  whirling  through 
it.  At  first  she  could  not  remember  where  she  was. 
Then  she  heard  children's  merry  voices  in  the  distance, 
and  began  to  realize  the  new  circumstances  of  her  life. 
Just  at  first  the  tears  rushed  to  her  eyes  as  the  thought 
came  of  her  father,  and  how  long  it  would  be  before 
she  should  see  him  again.  But  the  interest  of  novelty 
counteracted  the  touch  of  i)ain ;  and  before  Marion's 
gentle  tap  sounded  on  her  door,  she  was  half-dressed. 
Marion  was  watching  to  go  down  with  her,  and  not 
far  off  was  Millie  —  her  Aunt  Millie's  namesake  — 
waiting  for  an  introduction.  She  was  a  year  or  two 
younger  than  Marjorie,  with  a  strong  likeness  to  her 

78 


IN    MONTllEAL. 


79 


father,  and  a  good  deal  of  cleverness  and  ambition  in 
her  eager  face. 

From  the  hull  downstairs  came  ringing  shonts  of 
langhter,  which,  Marjorie  soon  found,  came  from  Jack 
and  the  two  youngest  children,  who  were  watching 
with  great  anmsement  the  introduction  of  Hobin  to 
Nero.  The  staid,  dignified,  but  good-natured  New- 
foundland looked  at  the  little  intruder  with  evident 
surprise,  but  with  a  tolerant,  patronizing  air,  while 
Kobin,  who  was  more  than  half-disposed  to  snarl  and 
quarrel,  after  the  manner  of  small  terriers,  seemed 
gradually  to  take  in  the  situation,  and  reconciled  liim- 
self  to  be  patronized,  though  evidently  much  relieved 
when  Marjorie  ai)peait'd  and  gave  him  an  opportunity/ 
to  retire  gracefully. 

Jack  was  nearly  as  old  as  Marjorie,  but  somehow 
seemed  much  younger,  despite  his  greater  height.  lie 
was  much  plainer  than  Alan,  and  rather  awkward,  if 
not  shy.  He  and  his  sister  Millie  always  "  hunted  in 
couples,"  as  their  father  expressed  it.  They  were  al- 
ways together  when  it  was  possible  for  them  to  be  so. 
Millie  went  to  the  grammar  school  with  her  brother 
and  kept  up  with  him  in  his  classes,  notwithstanding 
his  seniority.  Jack  had  long  made  up  his  mind  to  be 
a  doctor,  and  it  was  Millie's  secret  ambition  to  be  one 
too ;  aiid  then  she  and  Jack  could  go  into  partnership 
together  "  to  kill  people,"  as  Alan  unfeelingly  put  it 
when  this  secret  had  incautiously  leaked  out. 


ii 


80 


IN    MONTREAL. 


nn 


The  two  youngest  were  Norman,  a  sturdy  eight-year- 
old  in  knickerbockers,  and  little  Ettie,  the  household 
pet,  who  WIS  only  six,  and,  as  everybody  declared,  a 
little  image  of  her  mother.  Mrs.  Kamsay  wa^  already 
in  the  dining-room,  and  called  them  all  in  to  prayers. 

"  Your  uncle  is  not  up  yet,"  she  said  to  Marjorie, 
when  she  had  given  !ier  a  warm  kiss  of  greeting. 
"  He  was  called  out  late  last  night,  and  was  out  most 
of  the  night-  Such  things  often  happen  in  doctors' 
families,  and  we  have  to  breakfast  without  him  when 
they  do.'' 

Marjorie  felt  disappointed.  She  could  not  have 
believed  that  the  absence  of  the  doctor's  genial  pres- 
ence could  have  made  such  a  difference.  Mrs.  Kamsay 
indicated  an  appropriate  hymn,  which  all  sang  together 
very  sweetly ;  even  Effie's  childish  voice  accompanied 
her  mother's  ;  and  then  followed  the  reading  and  the 
simple  prayer,  the  whole  lasting  only  a  very  few 
minutes,  for,  in  the  opinion  of  both  Doctor  and  Mrs. 
Ramsay,  brevity  is  one  of  the  essentials  of  devotion 
where  children  are  concerned.  The  simple  little  ser- 
vice closed  with  the  reverent  repetition  of  the  Lord's 
Prayer  by  the  servants  as  well  as  children.  To  Mar- 
jorie, accustomed  to  so  small  a  family,  in  which  such 
had  not  been  the  practice,  this  hearty  little  household 
service  was  a  very  pleasant  and  impressive  novelty. 

Then  followed  breakfast,  while  the  clatter  of  so 
many  lively  tongues  was  rather  bewildering.     Marjorie 


IN   MONTREAL. 


81 


was  kept  busy  answering  questions  :  whether  she  liked 
snow ;  whether  they  had  sleighs  in  New  York,  or  to- 
boggan slides  ;  whether  she  could  skate  or  snow-shoe  ; 
or  had  ever  been  in  a  toboggan  ?  Norman  generously 
offered  to  take  her  down  in  the  small  toboggan  which 
was  the  joint  property  of  himself  and  Effie,  and  which 
they  expected  to  use  in  a  day  or  two,  on  a  children's 
slide  in  a  neighboring  field  ;  while  Alan  and  Jack  dis- 
cussed the  merits  of  the  various  slides  then  ready,  and 
tlie  new  ones  about  to  be  prepared  for  the  approaching 
carnival. 

••'There  will  be  plenty  of  snow  for  them  soon,"  said 
Mrs.  Ramsay,  "  if  this  snowstorm  lasts  all  day.  But 
you  won't  get  out  much  to-day  if  it  does,  Marjorie. 
You  will  have  to  amuse  yourself  in  doors,  I  fear.  And 
now,  children,  it's  time  to  be  off  to  school." 

None  of  the  little  Ramsays  minded  a  snowstorm 
unless  it  was  very  bad  indeed.  Even  little  Effie  got 
on  her  striped  blanket  suit  and  blue  tuque,  in  which  she 
looked  a  charming  little  picture,  and  trotted  merrily 
off  with  Norman  to  the  school,  not  very  far  away, 
which  they  attended.  When  they  were  all  fairly  off, 
Mrs.  Ramsay  went  to  attend  to  her  housekeeping,  and 
Marion  who  did  not  go  to  school  now,  but  only  to  one 
or  two  special  classes,  conducted  Marjorie  on  a  tour  of 
inspection  of  the  house  und  the  things  in  it  which  she 
thought  would  specially  interest  her  cousin.  One  of 
these  was  a  tiu'ti  large  photograph  of  her  father  when 


U    ?■.' 


h  ,,1 


im 


"'M 


82 


IN    MONTREAL. 


a  young  man,  which  Marjorie  had  never  seen  before, 
and  at  which  she  could  scarcely  stop  gazing. 

They  finally  found  their  way  into  "  the  study,"  a 
cosey  room  1  a,lf-f ull  of  books,  where  the  children 
learned  their  lessons,  and  practiced  on  the  old  piano, 
and  followed  the  various  pursuits  that  interested  them 
out  of  school  hours ;  and  where  they  could  make  "  a 
litter  "  without  detriment  to  the  order  of  the  rest  of 
the  house  ;  being  always  expected,  however,  to  put 
away  tiieir  books  and  toys  when  not  using  them. 
Here  Marion  and  Marjorie  established  themselves 
with  some  mending,  in  which  the  latter  offered  to  help, 
and  here  Mrs.  Ramsay  by  and  by  joined  them.  Dr. 
Kamsay  looking  in  also  for  a  few  minutes  when  he 
had  had  his  breakfast.  This  room  had  a  window  look- 
ing toward  the  "  mountain,"  which,  however,  in  the 
snov/storm  appeared  only  as  a  somewhat  dim  jketch 
in  black  and  white,  the  dark  pines  above  weirdly  con- 
trasting with  the  white  clouds  of  snow-drift.  The 
wintry  world  without  made  the  indoor  comfort  all  the 
pleasanter,  and  Marion  and  Marjorie  had  a  long  talk 
over  their  work  till  the  latter  felt  as  if  she  knew  her 
Cousin  Marion  almost  as  well  as  her  Aunt  Millie. 

Mrs.  Ramsay  held  a  sort  of  family  council  with  the 
two  girls  as  to  the  best  plan  for  Marjorie's  studies.  It 
was  too  near  the  Christmas  holidays  now,  to  be  worth 
while  to  begin  attendance  anywhere  till  they  were  over. 
Dr.  Ramsay  believed  in  a  thorough  grammar  school 


ir        I 


IN    MONTREAL. 


88 


education  for  girls,  from  the  beginning,  but  his  wife 
could  not  quite  reconcile  herself  to  what  she  called  his 
"  advanced "  ideas,  and  had  a  great  })reference  for 
placing  a  girl  ^rowing  into  womanhood  under  the 
care  of  cultivated  women,  with  companions  of  their 
own  sex.  She  had  had  her  own  way  with  Marion, 
who  was  not  particularly  intellectual,  and  had  no  am- 
bition in  the  way  of  higher  educat'on  ;  but  Millie  was 
totally  different,  and  Mrs.  Ramsay  had  the  good  sense 
to  see  that  it  was  best  to  let  her  follow  her  bent. 
"After  all,"  Dr.  Ramsay  would  say,  '"since  Nature 
has  made  our  girls  so  different,  why  should  we  want  to 
trim  them  all  off  on  one  pattern  —  like  a  box  hedge  ? 
Variety  is  the  very  spice  of  life,  and  I  like  both 
my  Marion  and  my  Millie,  each  in  h.jr  own  way.*' 
So  Marion  had  been  educated  mainly  on  the  old-fash- 
ioned plan,  while  Millie  already,  at  eleven,  planned  for 
herself  a  professional  education  and  a  professional 
career,  though,  fearing  to  be  "  chaffed,''  she  was  not 
given  to  talk  freely  on  the  subject.  Mrs.  Ramsay 
knew  that  her  brother  rdiared,  to  a  great  extent,  her 
"old-fashioned  prejudices,"  tliough  he  had  always 
taken  a  personal  supervision  of  Marjorie's  education  ; 
and  as  she  herself  had  no  desire  for  the  novel  experi- 
ence of  a  high  school,  it  was  decided,  to  her  satisfac- 
tion, that  after  Christmas  she  should  enter  the  same 
school  that  Ada  West  attended,  and  where  Marion 
still  continued  to  take  lessons  in  music  and  painting. 


4ii 


II 


H'  ' 


84 


IN    MONTREAL. 


The  snowstorm  continued  unabated  during  the  day. 
Norman  and  Effie  came  home  with  cheeks  glowing 
with  exercise  and  fun,  and  wanted  to  begin  a  snow 
'•  fort  '■  and  "  robbers'  cave "  in  the  yard  at  once. 
"Jack  and  Jill,"  as  Jack  and  Millie  were  often 
called,  brought  home  jubilant  reports  of  the  depth  of 
the  snow,  anci  declared  that  there  would  be  enough  for 
snow-shoeing  and  tobogganing  to-morrow.  Marjorie 
found  the  afternoon  pass  quickly  enough,  between 
reading  the  "  Adventures  of  Amyas  Leigh  "  —  in  which 
she  had  become  profoundly  interested  —  watching  her 
Cousin  Marion  paint  a  china  cup,  intended  for  a  Christ- 
mas present,  and  making  acquai: stance  with  the  little 
ones.  They  soon  found  out  she  could  tell  stories ; 
and  she  had  to  ransack  her  brain  for  all  tlie  old  <iriffiii 
and  fairy  tales  that  her  fatlier  used  to  tell  to  her  on 
winter  evenings. 

"And  don't  you  know  any  bear  or  Indian  stories?*' 
Norman  wanted  to  know,  when  at  last  the  sui)ply 
seemed  to  run  short.  Marjorie  confessed  that  she  did 
not ;  whereupon  Effie  volunteered  to  tell  her  the  story 
of  the  Three  Bears,  from  her  nursery  book,  and  told 
it  very  amusingly,  too,  in  her  own  quaint   little  way. 

"  I'll  tell  you  what,  Cousin  Marjorie,"  said  Jack, 
who  had  been  standing  by,  "  you  just  ought  to  get 
Professor  Duncan  to  tell  you  some  of  his  stories.  He 
knows  lots  and  lots  ;  all  about  the  Indians,  and  Cham- 
plain,  and  priests  —  Jesuits  they  were,  you  know  — 


I II 


IN    MONTREAL. 


85 


that  came  to  try  to  convert  the  IiuUans,  and  how  they 
went  and  lived  in  their  wigwams  till  they  were  almost 
dead  with  cold  and  hunger,  and  how  they  killed  and 
burned  them." 

"Burned  the  Indians  ?"  asked  Marjorie,  shocked, 
but  yet  with  an  association  of  ideas  connecting  the 
Jesuits  with  the  Inquisition  and  the  persecution  of  the 
Waldenses. 

"Jack,"  exclaimed  Millie,  with  a  touch  of  scorn, 
"  how  you  do  tell  things  upside  down  I  No,  Cousin 
Marjorie  ;  these  Jesuits  weren't  like  that.  They  were 
awfully  good,  brave  men,  and  they  were  always  risking 
their  lives  among  the  savages,  and  some  of  them  were 
killed  and  burned  with  the  greatest  barbarity.  You 
must  get  Professor  Duncan  to  tell  you  about  Isaac 
Jogues." 

And  Millie,  having  thus  elucidated  the  matter  to 
her  own  satisfaction,  subsided  again  into  the  book  she 
was  devouring. 

"  Who  is  Professor  Duncan  ?  "  Marjorie  asked  Jack. 

"  Oh !  he's  a  great  friend  of  ours." 

"  Of  father's,  you  mean,"  interpolated  the  critical 
Millie,  without  raising  her  head. 

"  No ;  of  all  of  us,"  insisted  Jack.  "  He  often 
comes  to  see  us,  mostly  always  on  Sunday  evenings  ; 
and  he's  splendid,  and  never  gets  tired  of  telling  us 
things  ;  and  he  knows  an  awful  lot.  They  say  he's 
an  author,"  continued  Jack,  mysteriously. 


'  i 


'I. 


fir 


i 


8Q 


IN    MONTREAL. 


"  So  is  Uncle  John,  isn't  ho,  Cousin  Marjorie?"  in- 
quired Millie. 

Marjorie  was  a  little  taken  back.  It  had  never  oc- 
(Uirred  to  her  to  consider  her  father  in  the  light  of  an 
"  author,"  though  of  course  she  knew  that  he  wrote  a 
great  deal. 

"  Yes,  T  suppose  so,"  she  said,  secretly  much  pleased 
to  find  his  reputation  so  well  sustained. 

Next  morning  was  clear,  bright  and  bracing.  The 
sky  was  blue,  the  sun  shone  on  the  new-fallen  snow, 
making  it  sparkle  till  it  was  fairly  dazzling.  The 
"  mountain  "  rose,  a  glittering  rounded  mass  of  white, 
relieved  by  the  inky  blackness  of  its  leafless  trees 
and  crest  of  dark  pines  above.  The  merry  music  of 
the  sleigh-bells  seemed  unceasing,  and  contributed  to 
the  general  exhilaration.  The  children  were  ;dl  in 
the  merriest  mood,  and  were  discussing  toboggans  and 
snow-shoes,  snow  forts  and  Christmas-trees,  all  in  a 
breath.  Alan  bclon  ,ed  to  a  Sno"'-shoe  Club  already, 
and  went  on  long  tramps,  and  it  was  one  of  Jack's 
ambitions  to  do  the  same. 

Dr.  Ramsay  offered  to  take  Marjorie  in  his  cutter, 
for  a  drive  about  the  city,  when  he  went  on  his  morn- 
ing rounds,  and  Mrs.  Ramsay  arranged  to  meet  h^r, 
with  Marion,  at  one  of  the  book  stores,  in  order  to  go 
on  a  sho])ping  expedition  to  get  Marjorie  a  fur  cap  and 
some  other  needed  outdoor  wraps,  among  which  Alan 
had  specially  requested   that  a  blanket  ulster,  tuque 


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I 


IN    MONTREAL. 


87 


and  sash  should  be  included,  for  he  should  want  her 
to  go  tobogganing  with  hini  often,  and  she  must  have 
a  tobogganing  costume. 

*So  she  was  well  muffled  up,  temporarily,  in  Millie's 
warm  fur  cape  and  blue  "  cloud,"  and  stowed  herself 
away  in  the  doctor's  cutter,  with  great  satisfaction. 
Chester  needed  no  urging  to  dash  off  to  the  tune  of 
his  own  bells,  and  tlu'y  were  soon  gliding  down  Beaver 
Hall,  across  Victoria  Square,  and  along  Great  St.  James 
Street  with  its  massive  stone  buildings,  and  then  be- 
tween the  queer  tall  French  houses  of  the  narrow 
Notre  Dame  Street,  growing  more  and  more  French  in 
aspect  and  speech  as  they  went  eastward.  Dr.  Ram- 
say pointed  out  the  banks,  and  the  beautiful  post-office, 
which  made  Marjorie  wonder  when  there  would  be  a 
letter  from  her  father,  and  the  stately  church  of  Notre 
Dame  with  its  two  tall  towers ;  and  the  market-women 
going  in  and  out ;  and  to  Marjorie  it  all  seemed  like 
pictures  out  of  books  that  she  had  read  long  ago. 

"  Look,  Marjorie,"  said  her  uncle,  as  they  were 
obliged  to  thread  their  way  more  slowly  along  the  nar- 
row, crowded  street,  "  that  is  the  entrance  to  the  Old 
Gray  Nunnery.  Some  of  the  oldest  buildings  in  Mon- 
treal are  there,  going  back  almost  to  the  time  when  it 
was  first  founded  as  Ville  Marie ;  that  was  its  old  name. 
You  must  go  in  some  day  and  see  the  little  old  church, 
and  hear  the  story  of  my  favorite  heroine,  the  benevo- 
lent  Marguerite   de   Bourgeoys,  and   see  her   picture, 


:      'f', 


;■!    )i^ 


II  m 


f  :ii 


88 


IN    MONTREAL. 


'■i  • 
h 


with  the  kind  sensible  face  —  the  face  of  a  true 
woman." 

"  Who  was  she  ?  "  asked  Marjorie. 

"  A  maiden  of  Troyes  in  France,  who  became  a 
nun,  and  came  out  to  Canada  in  the  old  French  days 
to  be  a  missionary  to  the  Indians,  and  especially  to 
teach  their  children.  She  was  one  of  the  founders  of 
Montreal  and  of  its  oldest  church,  and  you  will  see  her 
picture  in  there  when  you  go  to  see  the  convent.  It's 
what  we  Scotch  call  a  '  soncy  '  face,  full  of  heart  and 
goodness." 

"  .Another  light  in  the  darkness,"  thought  Marjorie, 
and  her  thoughts  flew  southward  to  her  father.  But 
they  were  quickly  recalled  by  the  novel  scene  about 
her,  as  Dr.  Ramsay  guided  his  horse  carefully  through 
the  throng  of  vehicles  of  all  kinds  on  runners,  from 
the  great  drays  and  the  large  handsome  family  sleighs, 
with  their  rich  fur  robes,  down  to  a  miniature  cutter 
drawn  by  a  goat,  which  delighted  her  greatly.  They 
passed  the  Champ  de  Mars  with  the  stately  fa<;ade 
of  the  court  house  behind  it,  and  Nelson's  Column, 
and  then  as  they  approached  the  crowded  Bonsecours 
market,  a  mass  of  market  sleighs  and  people  —  sellers 
and  buyers  —  they  had  to  go  more  slowly  still.  Mar- 
jorie watched  with  great  interest  the  crowds  of  hahitans^ 
horses  and  vehicles  of  quaint  and  curious  fashion,  and 
the  wonderful  variety  of  articles  they  were  offering  for 
sale,  from  carcasses  of  sheep  and  poultry  to  great  pans 


IN    MOiNTKKAL. 


80 


of  frozen  milk  which  was  sold  by  tlio  pound.  Tlio 
shrill  chatter  of  intei'niin<»led  French  and  Englisli 
tongues,  in  which  the  French  predominated,  made  it 
almost  impossible  for  her  to  hear  Dr.  Ramsay's  oc- 
casional exj)lanations  as  they  passed  some  object  of 
special  interest.  vSonie  fine  carcasses  of  beautiful  deer, 
frozen  stiff,  excited  her  admiration  and  pity.  Dr. 
Kamsay  told  her  they  were  brought  from  a  long  way 
back  among  the  hills,  and  promised  her  vi'uison  for 
dinner  some  day,  as  a  treat.  And  Marjorie  tiiought 
she  would  rather  have  the  deer  bounding  over  the  hills 
than  lying  stark  and  stiff  in  the  market})lace.  But 
then,  on  the  other  hand,  the  deer  might  starve  in  win- 
ter, which  was  one  consoling  consideration.  As  they 
passed  the  great  dark  stone  pile  of  the  market  itself, 
Dr.  Ramsay  pointed  up  a  narrow  alley  at  the  end  of 
which  was  a  quaint,  weather-beaten  little  stone  church. 
"There,"  he  said,  '*is  the  (pmintest,  oldest  little  church 
in  Montreal,  '  Notre  Dame  do  BonsecoHvs  '  —  '  Our 
Lady  of  Gracious  Help.'  Many  a  prayer  has  been 
put  up  there  for  soldiers  and  sailors,  and  many  a  sailor 
has  hung  up  his  little  votive  offering  in  token  of  grati- 
tude for  merciful  deliverance.  I  can't  wait  for  you  to 
go  in  now,  but  you  sliall  go  in  another  time,  and  take 
a  good  look  at  it  all  ;  for  it  will  give  you  a  very  good 
idea  of  many  an  old  church  abroad.  It  might  quite 
well  be  in  Normandy." 

They   were   now   gliding   along    St.    Mary    Street, 


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IN   MONTREAL. 


through  the  old  French  suburb  of  Hochelaga,with  the 
white  expanse  of  the  river  to  their  right,  and  the  wood- 
crested  mound  of  St.  Helen's  Island  rising  out  of  tlie 
wide  river  plain.  Dr.  Kamsay  explained  that  this 
was  the  oldest  part  of  Montreal ;  that  Ihe  name  Hochc- 
laga  had  been  the  name  of  the  original  Indian  village 
which  had  occu})ied  the  spot  when  Jacques  Cartier 
first  visited  it,  shortly  after  he  had  first  discovered  the 
St.  Lawrence  itself,  lie  described  how  the  gallant 
Breton  navigator  had  left  his  largest  shii)s  at  Quebec, 
and  sailed  up  in  a  small  sloop  to  visit  this  large 
palisaded  village  which  he  had  heard  of  as  the  capital 
of  a  great  country  on  the  river,  then  also  called  the 
river  of  Hochf^laga.  He  told  how  Cartier  had  landed 
somewhere  near  that  very  place,  and  had  walked  uj) 
through  the  maize  fields  in  state,  to  the  village  of  bark 
wigwams,  with  its  triple  wall  of  palisades ;  and  how 
all,  from  the  withered  and  decrepit  chief,  down  to  the 
squaws  and  children,  received  the  white  strangers  with 
the  greatest  joy  and  respect,  even  believing  that  Car- 
tier  could  heal  their  maladies.  And  then  Cartier  had 
been  conducted  through  the  primeval  forest  to  the  top 
of  the  beautiful  mountain,  and  had  given  it  the  name 
it  has  kept  ever  since  —  "  Mount  Royal  "  ;  in  honor  of 
the  magnificent  view,  beautiful  then  as  now. 

They  turned  by  and  by,  after  Dr.  Ramsay  had 
pointed  out  the  great  convent  at  Hochelaga,  where  so 
many  French  Canadian  girls  received  their  education, 


IN    MONTREAL. 


91 


and  which  he  said  she  should  go  to  see  some  day. 
"  The  nuns,"  he  said,  "  are  sweet  and  gentle  women, 
and  their  scholars  love  them  dearly,  and  learn  from 
them  gentle  and  womanly  manners,  which  make  French 
Canadian  girls  so  charming,  and  are  like  a  low  voice, 
'  an  excellent  thing  in  woman.' '' 

Dr.  Ramsay  turned  into  St.  Paul  Street  on  their 
way  back,  to  sliow  Marjorie  the  very  oldest  bit  of  the 
city,  the  site  of  its  first  foundation,  and  talked  about 
the  old  heroic  days  when  this  one  little  street  of  small 
houses  stood  alone  to  stem  the  great  tide  of  savage 
barbarism  that  swept  like  a  flood  over  all  the  sur- 
rounding country  except  only  the  rock  of  Quebec 
and  the  fringe  of  eastern  settlements  of  her  Puritan 
forefathers. 

"  In  those  days,  Marjorie,"  he  said,  "  the  bitter 
enemies  of  Canada  —  the  fierce  Iroquois  —  were  the 
friends  of  your  forefathers  ;  and  I  am  sorry  to  say 
that  these  two  colonies  of  Christian  nations  not  only 
went  to  war  with  each  other  before  the  eyes  of  these 
poor  heathen  savages,  but  even  urged  on  their  Indian 
allies  to  fall  <m  the  defenseless  colonists  on  each  side, 
and  murder  and  plunder  and  destroy.  It  was  horrible 
that  such  things  should  be  !  Let  us  be  thankful  tliat 
the  world  has  grown  a  little  better  since  then,  and 
that  nations  are  beginning  to  see  the  wickedness  of 
war  in  its  true  light. 

"  But  there  were  heroes  in  those  days,  Marjorie," 


IN   MONTREAL. 


he  added,  and  he  went  on  to  tell  her  how  that  very 
Place  d'Arnies,  in  front  of  the  big  church  of  Notre 
Dame,  had  been  the  scene  of  an  exploit  as  brave  as 
the  "  holding  of  the  bridge "  in  the  "  brave  days  of 
Rome,"  which  she  had  read  about  in  Macaulay's  Lays, 
when  Maisonneuve,  the  Christian  knight  and  soldier 
who  founded  Montreal,  had  kept  a  horde  of  Indian 
assailants  at  bay,  single-handed,  until  every  one  of  his 
pursued  retreating  followers  was  safe  within  the  walls 
of  the  little  fort. 

"  And  was  he  killed  ?  "   asked  Marjorie. 

"  No,"  he  replied,  "  the  Indians  were  so  impressed 
by  his  brave  defense  that  they  were  determined  to 
take  him  alive,  and  then  he  managed  to  strike  down 
their  chief,  and,  in  the  excitement  that  ensued,  he  too 
got  within  the  walls.  And  so  that  adventure  at  least 
ended  hap])ily." 

"  For  the  French,  yes,"  said  Marjorie,  and  the 
doctor  laughed. 

"  Ah,  I'm  afraid  we've  all  a  little  heathenism  left," 
he  said,  good-humoredly.  "  But  then,  you  see,  if 
Maisonneuve  and  his  men  had  been  killed,  it  might 
have  involved  destruction  to  the  whole  French  colony 
at  that  time,  which  would  have  been  a  far  greater  mis- 
fortune than  the  death  of  a  few  savages  could  be." 

And  now  they  were  back  in  St.  James  Street,  and 
Dr.  Ramsay  set  down  Marjorie  at  the  bookstore  where 
her  aunt  and  cousin  were  to  meet  her. 


CHAPTER  VI. 


NEW    FRIENDS. 


As  Marjorie  expected,  her  aunt  and  cousin  had  not 
arrived  when  she  entered  the  bookstore,  so  she  fol- 
lowed her  uncle's  directions,  bought  some  Canadian 
postage  stamps,  and  sat  down  by  the  counter  to  look 
at  the  new  books  there  displayed,  until  her  aunt's  ar- 
rival. Not  far  from  her  sat  a  gentleman  who  seemed 
deeply  engaged  in  looking  over  some  large  volumes, 
yet  occasionally  darted  keen,  scrutinizing  glances  at 
the  people  who  came  in  or  went  out,  one  or  two  of 
which  rested  a  moment  on  herself.  She  could  not 
help  stealing  a  glance  at  him  again  and  again ;  for  he 
seemed  to  her  both  a  very  peculiar  and  a  very  interest- 
ing-looking man.  He  had  a  strong  face,  which  no 
one  could  have  called  handsome,  but  which  was  full 
of  deep  lines  of  thought  and  expression  ;  a  powerful, 
though  by  no  means  tall  figure,  somewhat  high-shoul- 
dered and  stooping.  He  liad  the  air  of  one  who 
lived  much  alone  and  communed  nuich  with  books,  and 
yet  had  strong  sympathy  too  with  men,  for  the  lines 

93 


n 


m 


^-^ 


94 


NEW   FRIENDS. 


of  his  face  were  kindly  as  well  as  thoughtful,  even 
when  it  was  at  rest.  The  bookseller  treated  him  with 
marked  respect,  and  brought  out  one  volume  after 
another  to  show  him  —  books  which  seemed  very  large 
and  learned-looking,  Marjorie  thought. 

At  last,  after  selecting  two  or  three  volumes  to  be 
sent  to  him,  he  rose,  buttoned  his  overcoat,  shoved  his 
lu'j-vy  fur  cap  —  which  had  been  lying  on  the  counter 
—  down  almost  to  his  shaggy  eyebrows,  and  t  ok  his 
leave  after  a  kindly  good-morning  to  the  bookseller 
and  a  last  glance  at  Marjorie,  which  seemed  to  say 
that  he  knew  quite  well  that  she  was  a  stranger,  and 
was  mentally  classifying  her  as  he  might  a  botanical 
specimen.  Just  as  he  reached  the  door,  he  stopped  to 
greet  with  the  most  overflowing  cordiality,  Mrs.  Ram- 
say who  was  just  coming  in.  Both  she  and  Marion 
responded  to  his  greeting  with  evident  pleasure,  part- 
ing with  the  words,  "  We  shall  see  you  to-morrow, 
then." 

"  O,  Aunt  Mary !  who  is  that  gentleman  ?  "  asked 
Marjorie,  with  eager  interest. 

"That  is  Professor  Duncan,  one  of  our  dearest 
friends  here,"  replied  Mrs.  Ramsay,  with  a  smile. 
"But  what  made  you  ask ? " 

"  Oh !  I  couldn't  help  looking  at  him  while  I  was 
waiting.  And  I  thought  he  must  be  very  wise  and 
clever ;  I  am  so  glad  you  know  him !  eTack  and  Millie 
were  talking  about  Professor  Duncan  yesterday." 


NEW    FRIENDS. 


95 


,d 


"  Yes  ;  he's  a  great  favorite  of  theirs,  as  he  ought  to 
be ;  for  he  is  most  kind  in  talking  to  them  and  tell- 
ing them  stories.  He  lives  all  alone,  and  often  drops 
in  to  take  tea  with  us  on  Sunday  evenings,  so  to-mor- 
row you  will  see  him  and  hear  him  for  yourself." 

The  shopping  expedition  began,  and  Marjorie  ac- 
companied her  aunt  and  cousin  from  one  large  shop  : '» 
another,  where  furs,  blanket-suits  and  an  infinitude  of 
other  articles  of  winter  wear  were  displayed  in  bewil- 
dering profusion.  After  a  good  deal  of  con>parison  and 
consideration,  Marjorie  finally  decided  on  a  warm 
squirrel  cape,  cap  and  muff,  for  ordinary  we.ir,  and  a 
tobogganing  costume,  consisting  of  a  white  blanket 
ulster  with  a  striped  border  of  sky-blue,  and  blue  sash 
and  tuque  hleue  to  match  ;  colors  which  Alan  had 
especially  commended,  because  he  belonged  to  a  club 
bearing  the  name  of  Tuque  Bleue. 

They  were  just  coming  out  of  the  last  shop  when  a 
large  family  sleigh  with  handsome  fur  triii)pings,  drew 
up  in  front  of  it.  Marjorie  was  just  admiring  the 
beauty  of  the  horses  and  the  appointments  of  the 
equipage,  when  a  light  figure  sprang  out  and  she  heard 
a  lively  voice  exclaim : 

"  O,  Marjorie  !  I'm  so  glad  we've  met  you.  I  was 
just  going  to  drive  up  as  soon  as  mamma  was  done 
shopping,  to  see  if  you  would  come  and  take  lunch  at 
our  house  to-day.  May  she,  Mrs.  Ramsay  ?  It  was 
too  stormy  yesterday  to  go  to  see  you,  you  know,  but 


96 


NEW    FRIENDS. 


I '    I 


I 


:ii!i' 


mamma  always  lets  me  have  any  one  I  like  to  luncheon 
on  Saturdays." 

Mrs.  West  who  followed  her  daughter  more  leisurely, 
endorsed  Ada's  invitation,  and  as  Mrs.  Ramsay  seemed 
quite  willing  that  Marjorie  should  accept  it,  the  matter 
was  quickly  settled,  Ada  saying  that  they  could  leave 
Marjorie  at  her  uncle's  house  when  they  drove  out  in 
the  afternoon. 

Marjorie  prefei'red  to  sit  with  Ada  in  the  sleigh 
while  Mrs.  West  went  in  to  make  her  purchases.  She 
thought  she  should  never  tire  of  watching  the  stream 
of  people  and  sleighs  of  such  variety  of  aspects,  that 

» 

poured  along  Notre  Dame  Street  —  the  great  shopping 
street  of  Montreal  —  and  Ada's  brisk  accompaniment 
of  remarks  and  explanations  made  the  scene  still  more 
entertaining,  for  she  could  tell  Marjorie  something 
about  a  good  many  of  the  people  who  passed. 

When  Mrs.  West  came  out  the  horses'  heads  were 
turned  homewards,  and  they  were  soon  again  across 
Victoria  Square  and  ascending  the  slope  of  Beaver 
Hall.  Then  they  drove  a  little  way  along  Dorchester 
Street,  and  Ada  pointed  out  the  beautiful  churches 
and  mansions  there,  and  the  fine  English  cathedral 
with  its  rectory  close  by  ;  and  then  they  crossed  the 
wide  St.  Catherine  Street  and  soon  were  gliding  along 
Sherbrooke  Street  where  the  stately  mansions  that 
line  it  on  either  hand,  stood  out  to  view  all  the  more 
plainly,  because  of  the  leaflessness  of  the  environing 


NEW    FRIENDS. 


97 


trees.  Behind  the  line  of  handsome  houses  and  snow- 
clad  grounds,  rose  the  white  slopes  of  the  stately 
"  mountain  "  —  in  dazzling  purity  against  the  vivid 
blue  of  the  elear  wintry  sky. 

They  soon  stopped  in  front  of  a  fine  mansion  of 
gray  cut  stone,  with  an  ornamental  portico  and  some- 
what extensive  grounds.  Ada,  as  usual,  was  out  first, 
and  waited  impatiently  for  Marjorie  to  follow  Mrs. 
West,  for  whom  she  politely  waited  to  descend  first. 
The  door  was  quickly  thrown  open,  and  Ada  eagerly 
led  her  friend  into  the  softly  carpeted  hall.  Marjorie 
had  never  been  in  so  fine  a  house  in  her  life.  The 
spacious  hall  and  rooms,,  all  so  richly  carpeted  and 
luxuriously  furnished,  the  gleam  of  gilding  and  white 
statuary  here  and  there,  of  gorgeously  framed  pictures 
and  rich  tinted  curtains,  and  a  glimpse  of  a  French 
window  opening  into  a  conservatory  glowing  with 
lovely  flowers  —  all  seemed  to  give  her  the  sensation  of 
entering  a  fairy  palace.  It  seemed  a  sort  of  charming 
dream  which  would  dissolve  again  directly.  Poor 
Ada's  accustomed  eyes  had  never  seen  her  own  homo 
as  the  beautiful  vision  that  it  seemed  to  Marjorie's  just 
then.  To  her  it  was  very  matter-of-fact  reality,  though 
she  could  have  told  just  how  much  some  of  the  pictures 
cost,  and  was  proud  in  her  heart  of  her  luxurious 
home  which  she  knew  was  so  much  admired.  But  to 
Marjorie,  as  she  followed  her  friend  up  the  wide  stair- 
case to  Ada's  own  room  with  its  costly  furnishings, 


Il 


98 


NEW    FRIENDS. 


it  all  seemed  too  beautiful  aud  grand  for  homely 
e  very-day  use. 

"There's  my  canary,"  said  Ada,  pointing  to  the 
gilt  cage  that  hung  between  the  pretty  pink-lined  cur- 
tains. "  He  sings  beautifully,  and  hasn't  he  a  pretty 
cage?  Tliat  was  my  last  birthday  present,  but  I'm 
awfully  afraid  of  forgetting  him.  Now  if  you're  ready 
come  down,  and  I'll  show  you  the  drawing-room  and 
conservatory  before  lunch." 

Marjorie  was  divided  in  her  admiration  between  the 
large  handsome  room  with  its  artistic  decorations  and 
charming  pictures,  and  the  pretty  little  conservatory 
gay  with  geraniums  and  chrysanthemums,  white  and 
golden,  and  its  ferns  and  hanging  baskets  with  their 
clustering  tendrils  of  drooping  phmts  and  flowers. 
She  was  still  lingering  in  delighted  admiration  of  these 
when  a  gong  sounded,  and  Ada  said  they  must  go  to 
luncheon. 

They  passed  on  through  the  spacious  hall,  its  light 
mellowed  by  the  rich  tones  of  the  stained  glass  win- 
dow, into  the  large  dining-room  with  its  heavy  carved 
furniture,  where  an  oval  table  was  n  beautifully  set  out 
for  luncheon,  with  flowers  and  silver  and  gleaming 
ojystal.  Mrs.  West  came  in  with  her  somewhat  slow 
and  languid  air,  and  Gerald  followed  a  few  minutes 
later,  and  after  a  courteous  salutation  to  Marjorie  took 
his  seat  opposite  her.  He  was  not  like  Ada,  being 
pale  rather  than  fair,  with  brown  hair  and  rather  large 


NEW    FHIENDS. 


99 


gray  eyes  like  those  of  his  mother.  He  was  much 
slighter  than  Alan  in  figure,  and  Marjorie  thought  he 
looked  like  a  clever  lad  and  would  be  rather  handsome 
if  his  expression  had  not  something  dissatisfied  in  it. 
She  thought  he  did  not  look  so  bright  and  happy  as 
Alan,  notwithstanding  the  pony  and  the  abundance  of 
pocket-money. 

The  luncheon  was  quite  good  enough  for  any  one's 
dinner,  Marjorie  thought.  There  were  three  courses, 
with  fruit  besides,  and  biscuits  and  macaroons  to 
finish  with.  Ada  just  tasted  a  little  at  each  course 
in  turn,  but  evidently  did  not  relish  her  lunch  as 
Marjorie  did.  Mrs.  West  had  a  better  appetite,  and 
talked  very  little ;  satisfying  herself  with  asking  a 
few  questions  as  to  how  Marjorie  liked  Montreal, 
whether  it  did  not  seem  very  small  after  New  York, 
whether  New  York  was  very  gay  this  winter,  and  so 
on.  She  seemed  surprised  to  find  that  Marjorie  did 
not  live  in  New  York  at  all,  but  'only  in  one  of  the 
suburban  towns,  and  that  she  had  lived  very  quietly, 
not  going  much  into  the  city. 

"  And'how  is  your  little  dog  ?  What  is  his  name  ?  " 
said  Ada,  asking,  as  usual,  two  questions  in  one  breath. 

Marjorie  explained  that  her  father  had  wanted  to  call 
him  Rab,  after  a  dog  in  a  book,  but  that  she  liked 
Robin  best,  and  so  he  had  got  the  name  of  Robin 
Adair,  which,  Ada  declared,  was  a  very  funny  name 
for  a  dog. 


■  '3 


T^ 


100 


NEW    FRIENDS. 


Gerald  looked  up  with  more  animation  than  he  had 
yet  shown. 

"  Oh  !  "  he  exclaimed,  as  if  an  idea  had  just  struck 
him,  ''  I  suppose  llab  was  the  dog  in  a  pretty  little 
story  that  Alan  lent  me  about '  Kab  and  his  Friends,'  " 

"  Yes,"  said  Marjorie ;  "  and  my  father  knew  that 
Rab  when  he  was  at  college  in  Edinburgh." 

"  And,"  pursued  Gerald,  "  there  was  another  story 
in  the  book  about  Marjorie  Fleming,  I  remember.  Are 
you  the  wonderful  little  girl  that  used  to  talk  to  Sir 
Walter  Scott  and  make  all  those  verses  about  the  hen  ? 

'  And  she  was  more  than  usual  calm,'" 


he  quoted.     "  I  suppose  I  mustn't  give  the  rest." 

Marjorie  caught  the  little  gleam  of  humor  that 
underlay  his  grave  manner;  but  she  only  replied  with 
equal  gravity : 

"  That  little  girl  died,  I  believe,"  at  which  Gerald's 
face  relaxed  a  very  little  into  a  faint  smile. 

"  Gerald,  what  nonsense  you  do  talk !  "  exclaimed 
Ada.  "How  could  Marjorie  have  talked  to  Sir 
Walter  Scott  when  he  died  ages  ago  ?  " 

"  Did  he  really  ?  "  replied  Gerald  satirically,  and 
Marjorie,  who  detested  satirical  remarks,  hastened  to 
say  that  her  mother's  name  had  been  Margaret,  and 
that  her  father  could  not  bear  that  she  should  have 
the  very  same  name,  and  so  had  bethought  himself  of 


NEW    KKIKNDS. 


101 


calling  her  Marjorie,  an  oltl  Scotch  name  in  Imh  own 
family,  and  whicli  was  connected  with  that  of  the 
historical  Marjorie  Fleming. 

"  Gerald's  going  to  Oxford  in  a  year  or  so,"  said 
Ada.  "  And  we're  all  going  abroad  as  soon  as  I  have 
done  with  school  here.  Perhaps  I'm  to  go  to  school 
somewhere  abroad  for  a  while,  too.  Wouldn't  it  be 
nice  for  you  to  come  with  me,  Marjorie?  I'm  sure 
you  could  learn  to  speak  French  and  German  a  good 
deal  quicker  than  I  could." 

Marjorie's  eyes  sparkled.  The  vision  of  going 
abroad  some  day  with  her  father,  was  one  of  her  cas- 
tles in  the  air,  but  she  could  not  talk  about  her  father 
here. 

Just  then  the  door  opened,  and  a  young  man,  rather 
handsome  and  very  fashionably  dressed,  strolled  in 
with  a  listless  air,  very  like  his  mother's.  He  threw 
down  a  small  packet  l)eside  Ada's  plate. 

"  Why,  Dick,"  said  his  mother,  looking  up  at  him 
with  a  look  brighter  than  any  Marjorie  had  yet  seen 
her  wear,  "  I  had  given  you  up.  I  thought  you 
must  be  taking  lunch  down  town  with  your  father." 

"  Oh !  the  governor's  over  head  and  ears  in  work, 
so  he  couldn't  spare  time  to  go  out  to  lunch  —  just 
sent  out  for  some  biscuits ;  and  I  thought  I  had  had 
enough  of  the  office  for  one  week  and  might  as  well 
give  myself  a  half-holiday  as  not,  so  I  came  home. 
Father  ought  to  take  a  half-holiday  himself  on  Satur- 


^'^ 


11 


fl' 


i 


I  i 


,f    i! 


102 


NEW    FRIENDS. 


(lays,  and  give  every  one  else  one,  ull  round.  How  do, 
Miss  Fleming  I  '  he  responded  to  Ada's  introduction, 
and  then  went  on. 

"  I  had  to*  call  in  at  Notman's  on  my  way  up,  Ada, 
so  I  brought  home  the  photos  you  wanted." 

"  See,  Marjorie,"  said  Ada,  undoing  the  package, 
"this  is  the  last  photo  I  have  had  taken.  It  was 
taken  in  my  fancy  dress  costume  tor  a  masquerade  at 
the  rink  last  winter." 

It  was  a  good  likeness  and  a  very  pretty  picture, 
representing  Ada  as  Titania,  with  a  coronet  and  a  pair 
of  Psyche  wings,  and  all  the  other  accessories. 

"  Have  you  had  your  photograph  taken  ?  "  asked 
Ada ;  "  because  if  you  have,  we'll  exchange  and  I'll 
give  you  one  of  these." 

Marjorie  had  not  had  one  taken  for  a  long  time,  she 
said  ;  her  father  regretted  very  much  at  the  last  mo- 
ment that  he  had  not  been  able  to  get  a  good  one 
taken  in  New  York. 

"  Then  I'll  tell  you  what,"  exclaimed  Ada,  in  great 
glee,  ""  you  must  go  and  have  a  good  photograph  taken 
at  Notman's  and  send  it  to  your  father  for  Christmas. 
And  then  you  can  give  me  one,  too.  Now  go  the  very 
first  thing  next  week." 

"  You'll  have  to  go.  Miss  Fleming,  I  assure  you,"  said 
the  eldest  brother,  who  made  it  a  point  to  make  him- 
self agreeable  to  young  ladies.  "  My  sister  has  a  way 
of  makino'  her  friends  do  what  she  wants  them  to  do." 


NEW    FRIENDS. 


103 


"  And  I'll  go  with  you  to  help  to  pose  you,"  said 
Ada.  "''  Tui  a  very  good  hand  at  posing  people,  am  I 
not,  Gerald  ?  " 

Ada  was  much  more  given  to  appealing  for  appro- 
bation to  her  younger  than  to  her  elder  brother,  not- 
withstanding his  propensity  to  '••make  fun"  of  her; 
perhaps  because  this  very  practice  had  inspired  her 
with  greater  respect  for  his  opinion. 

Luncheon  seemed  to  Marjorie  to  last  a  very  long 
time.  Nobody  was  in  any  hurry  to  rise,  for  nobody 
had  anything  very  particular  to  do ;  and  Dick  and 
his  mother  discussed  at  leisure  the  various  bits  of  gos- 
sip he  had  picked  u\)  in  the  course  of  the  morning ; 
the  latest  news  about  the  arrangements  for  the  coming 
carnival,  and  the  Christmas  parties  and  receptions 
that  were  being  talked  of.  It  was  very  evident  that 
Dick  was  Mrs.  West's  favorite  child.  Poor  fellow,  he 
was  a  "•  spoiled  child."  As  he  had  always  got  every 
thing  he  wanted  for  the  asking,  and  had  never  had  to 
do  anything  he  did  not  like,  he  seldom  now  did  any 
thing  but  what  he  "•  liked  "  to  do ;  and  the  things  he 
did  like  to  do  were  very  often  things  that  it  would 
have  shocked  his  mother  a  good  deal  to  know. 

At  last  Mrs.  West  rose  and  she  and  the  two  girls 
adjourned  to  the  library,  another  luxurious  apartment 
containing  a  bookcase  well  filled  with  books  in  hand- 
some bindings  —  seldom  opened  —  an  elegant  writing- 
table  fitted  up  with  all  sorts  of  ornamental  paraphernalia 


i 


■.^lii 


Its 


^f 


104 


NEW    FRIENDS. 


'a 


anct  any  number  of  comfortable  easy-chairs,  one  of 
which  Mrs.  West  drew  up  before  the  bright  coal  fire 
and  took  up  a  magazine  that  lay  on  the  table,  to  while 
away  an  hour  in  glancing  over  its  pages.  Ada  opened 
a  large  photograph  album  to  show  Marjorie  the  por- 
traits of  her  friends.  Presently  the  door-bell  rang, 
and  shortly  after  a  visitor  was  shown  into  the  library ; 
a  bright-eyed,  sunny-faced  little  lady  with  silver- 
gray  curls,  and  a  brisk,  animated  voice  and  manner, 
who  put  Marjorie  at  once  in  mind  of  some  of  the 
people  she  knew  at  home.  Mrs.  West  greeted  her  as 
Miss  Mostyn,  and  having  expressed  great  pleasure  at 
finding  Mrs.  West  at  home,  the  visitor  iurned  to  Ada 
with  a  pleasant  salutation,  and  then  looked  inquiringly 
at  Marjorie. 

"  This  is  Miss  Fleming  —  Dr.  Ramsay's  niece  from 
New  York ;  she  only  arrived  the  day  before  yester- 
day," said  Ada. 

"I'm  delighted  to  meet  any  one  belonging  to  Dr. 
Ramsay,"  said  Miss  Mostyn,  grasping  Marjorie's  hand 
most  cordially.  "  I'm  sure  I  don't  know  how  we 
should  get  on  without  Dr.  Ramsay.  He's  so  good  to 
the  poor  and  suffering !  And  so  you're  from  New 
York,  my  dear  ?  I've  got  some  very  dear  friends 
there  —  noble  Christian  women.  I  hope  you're  going 
to  be  like  them." 

Marjorie's  heart  was  quite  won  by  the  pleasant  face 
and  cordial  words.      Miss  Mostyn    had   business  on 


NEW   FRIENDS. 


105 


hand  and  she  turned  to  a  seat  beside  Mrs.  West,  but 
MarjoT-ie  was  so  much  attracted  towards  this  stranger 
that  slie  couhl  not  help  following  her  with  eye  and 
ear,  and  giving  a  very  half-hearted  attention  to  Ada's 
chatter. 

Miss  Mostyn  explained  that  she  had  just  come  from 
a  poor  family  in  great  destitution  and  suffering,  in 
whose  case  she  wanted  to  interest  Mrs.  West.  The 
father  had  recently  met  with  a  dreadful  accident  in 
the  "Works  "  in  which  Mr.  West  was  a  partner.  He 
had  had  one  of  his  legs  amputated  and  had  been  in  a 
very  critical  condition  ever  since.  And  now  his  wife 
had  a  young  baby  and  was  much  prostrated  by  her 
watching  and  anxiety,  and  the  family  had  nothing 
coming  in,  and  were  in  absolute  want  of  food,  clothes, 
fuel  —  everything,  with  no  money  to  buy  anything. 
Dr.  Ramsay  liad  been  attending  them  and  had  been 
mo'st  kind,  as  indeed  Mrs.  Ramsay  had  been  also. 
But  they  needed  so  many  things,  and  Miss  Mostyn 
was  trying  to  raise  a  subsori])tion  to  procure  necessaries 
for  them  during  their  present  helpless  condition.  She 
had  come  to  Mrs.  West,  she  said,  hoping  that  she 
would  head  the  subscription  with  a  generous  donation, 
as  the  poor  man  had  mot  with  the  accident  in  the 
"  Works  "  with  which  Mr.  West  was  connected. 

Marjorie  felt  intensely  interested  in  Miss  Mostyn's 
narrative  and  graphic  picture  of  the  suffering  helpless 
familv.     Now  she  felt  how  deliirhtful  it  must  be  to  be 


m 


l\ 


Ill  : 


■1     !« 


I 


106 


NEW    FRIENDS. 


rich  and  able  to  reach  a  helping  hand  to  people  in 
such  distress.  But  Mrs.  West  did  not  seem  at  all 
eager  to  respond  to  the  appeal.  She  "  thought,"  she 
said,  "  the  firm  had  done  all  that  was  necessary  for 
the  man  at  the  time  the  accident  occurred,  though  it 
really  was  no  fault  of  theirs  in  any  way." 

"  They  did  make  him  a  donation  at  the  time,"  said 
Miss  Mostyn,  "but  he  has  been  two  or  three  weeks  ill 
nov/,  and  that  money  is  gone.  You  know,  with  rent 
and  fuel  and  food  to  pay  for,  how  fast  money  runs 
away." 

"  Well,  I  know  Mr.  West  thought  they  did  all  that 
was  necessary,"  replied  Mrs.  West,  chillingly.  "And 
I  really  have  so  many  claims  constantly.  You  could 
have  no  idea  what  it  is,  unless  you  lived  in  a  liouse 
like  this,"  with  a  complacent  glance  at  the  luxurious 
appointments  about  her.  Miss  Mostyn  smiled  slightly, 
but  made  no  reply.  '  • 

"  However,  of  course  it's  a  very  sad  case,  and  1 
really  must  give  you  a  little  toward  it."  And  she 
took  out  of  an  elegant  pocket-book  a  dollar  in  silver, 
which  she  handed  to  Miss  Mostyn.  "  It's  really  all  I 
can  spare  just  now ;  it's  just  one  thing  to  give  to  after 
another,  and  then  there  is  Christmas  coming,  too,  and 
I  always  have  so  many  presents  to  give.  But  if  you 
get  a  dollar  from  every  one  you  ask  you'll  do  very 
well.  But  I  think,"  she  added,  "that  you  should 
head  your  subscription  with  the  amount  that  tlie  firm 


NEW    FRIENDS. 


107 


gave  at  first,  because  they  ought  to  have  credit  for 
that,  you  know." 

Miss  Mostyn  thanked  the  donor  rather  formally, 
and  suggested  at  parting  that  Mrs.  West  might  drive 
round  that  way  and  see  the  family  for  herself. 

"  My  dear  Miss  Mostyn ! "  exclaimed  that  lady 
pathetically,  "you've  no  idea  how  many  things  I  have 
on  my  mind.  It's  all  very  well  for  you,  with  plenty 
of  time  on  your  hands,  to  go  and  visit  such  people; 
and  I'm  sure  it's  very  good  of  you,  and  you'll  have 
your  reward.  But  with  my  establishment  to  look 
after,  and  my  visiting  list,  I  assure  you  it's  quite  out 
of  the  question.  And  then  it  always  makes  me  so 
miserable  to  see  how  such  people  live ;  it  would  quite 
upset  me,  I  assure  you.  Some  people  are  more  sensi- 
tive to  such  things  than  others." 

Miss  Mostyn's  sunny  countenance  was  just  a  little 
clouded,  and  there  were  bright  red  spots  on  her  cheeks 
as  she  took  her  leave  with  the  same  gentle  kindliness 
as  that  with  which  she  had  entered.  Marjorie  felt 
shocked,  indignant.  It  was  the  first  time  she  had  ever 
seen  the  hard,  cool,  callous  selfishness,  naturally  en- 
gendered by  a  life  of  luxurious  self-indulgence,  come 
out  and  display  itself  with  unblushing  insensibility  to 
the  suffering  of  others ;  and  the  moral  ugliness  of  it 
seemed  all  the  greater  in  contrast  with  the  beauty  of 
the  material  surroundings,  and  the  grace  and  fairness 
of  the  woman  who  had  spoken  such  heartless  words. 


ii 


:im 


1  r 


108 


NEW    FRIENDS. 


I    f 


III 


She  felt  as  strongly  repelled  from  Mrs.  West  as  she 
had  been  attracted  to  Miss  Mostyn,  who  had  kindly 
invited  her  to  come  to  see  her,  as  she  took  her  depar- 
ture. To  her  great  relief,  Mrs.  West  remarked  that 
the  sleigh  would  soon  be  at  the  door  for  their  after- 
noon drive,  and  Ada  carried  her  off  to  get  ready. 

"  Miss  Mostyn's  awfully  good,  you  know,"  Ada 
replied,  to  a  question  of  Marjorie's ;  "  but  she's  just 
'  got  poor  people  on  the  brain,'  Dick  says.  She's 
always  got  some  awful  case  of  destitution  on  hand, 
and  mamma  says  it  just  makes  her  nervous  to  see  her 
now." 

"But,  Ada,  don't  you  think  that  people  who  are 
rich  ought  to  be  always  helping  tlie  poor?  T  think 
that  must  be  the  greatest  pleasure  of  being  rich  —  to 
be  able  to  help  other  people." 

"  Well,  Marjorie,  you  do  have  such  funny  ideas ! 
I  never  heard  any  one  say  before  that  it  was  a  pleas- 
ure to  give  money  to  poor  people.  I  know  it's  good 
to  be  charitable,  but  that's  because  it  isn't  nearly  so 
nice  as  buying  what  you  want  for  yourself." 

"  Well,  my  father  always  says  that  '  it's  more  blessed 
to  give  than  to  receive,'  and  you  know  Who  said  that." 

"Yes,  I  know  it's  in  the  Bible  somewhere,"  said 
Ada,  "  for  we  had  a  sermon  about  it  lately.  But  I 
didn't  think  that  meant  it  was  a  pleasure,  you  know  ; 
for  the  Bible  says:  'Blessed  are  they  that  mourn,' 
and  I'm  sure  that  can't  be  a  pleasure." 


NEW    FRIENDS. 


109 


Marjorie  felt  a  little  perplexed  at  this  view  of  the 
subject,  but  there  was  no  time  to  continue  the  discus- 
sion then,  for  Mrs.  West  called  to  them  to  make  haste. 

They  were  soon  in  the  sleigh  once  more,  and  Mrs. 
West  directed  the  coachman  to  drive  to  the  western 
extremity  of  Sherbrooke  Street,  where  she  had  to  pay 
two  or  three  visits,  and  while  she  was  so  engaged  Ada 
could  give  Marjorie  a  little  drive,  and  then  leave  her 
at  Dr.  Ramsay's  house.  As  they  glided  swiftly  along 
Sherbrooke  Street,  Ada  pointed  out  the  various  objects 
of  interest ;  the  College  grounds  and  buildings,  the 
palace-like  residences  on  the  street  and  on  the  slope 
of  the  snow-clad  hill.  Every  moment  some  beauti- 
fully appointed  equipage  glided  past  them,  and  ladies, 
wrapped  in  rich  furs,  and  with  color  brightened  by 
the  sharp,  frosty  air,  exchanged  bows  and  smiles  with 
her  companions. 

"Ada,"  remarked  Mrs.  West  discontentedly,  after 
a  critical  scrutiny  of  her  appearance,  as  she  sat  oppo- 
site to  her,  "  that  cap  of  yours  is  really  beginning  to 
look  a  little  shabby  already ;  I  shall  have  to  get  you 
another  soon.  You  really  ought  to  take  more  care  of 
your  things." 

To  Marjorie's  eyes  Ada's  sealskin  cap  seemed  all 
that  could  be  desired ;  but  Mrs.  West  had  a  very  fas- 
tidious eye  for  dress,  and  liked  all  belonging  to  her  to 
be  irreproachable.  Marjorie's  thoughts  went  back  to 
Miss  Mostyn's  tale  of  misery  imd  Mrs.  West's  doto' 


I 


Ml 


r 


110 


NEW    FRIENDS. 


i 


subscription ;  and  it  was  a  relief  to  her  mind  when 
that  lady  reached  her  destination  and  bade  her  a  civil 
good-by,  expressing  the  hope  that  she  would  soon  come 
to  see  Ada  again.  She  was,  indeed,  genuinely  fond  of 
her  daughter,  and  glad  to  gratify  the  great  fancy  she 
had  taken  to  this  new  friend,  who  seemed  a  nice  little 
girl,  too,  "for  an  American,"  as  Mrs.  West  would 
have  put  it. 

After  another  swift,  enjoyable  drive  along  the  whole 
length  of  Sherbrooke  Street  —  Ada  pointing  out  the 
long  toboggan  slides,  with  their  wooden  platforms  and 
inclined  planes,  on  the  mountain  sloi)e  at  either  ex- 
tremity of  the  long,  broad  street  —  they  turned  down 
the  street  on  which  Dr.  Ramsay's  house  stood  and 
drew  up  in  front  of  it,  to  the  great  delight  of  Norman 
and  Effie,  who  were  drawing  a  little  toboggan  up  and 
down  in  front  of  their  own  door. 

"O,  Cousin  Marjorie!  we've  been  trying  our  tobog- 
gan slide  in  the  field,  and  it's  lovely.  We'll  give  you 
a  slide  if  you'll  come,"  they  exclaimed,  in  chorus. 

Marjorie  bade  Ada  good-by,  and  as  the  door  was 
opened  Robin  rushed  out  in  wild  delight  at  her  return. 
Millie  stood  by  enjoying  his  transports,  and  declared 
that  he  had  been  such  a  good  little  dog,  and  had  gone 
for  a  walk  with  her  and  Jack,  and  that  he  knew  them 
all  quite  well  now,  and  was  "  great  friends  with  Nero 
already." 

"And  here's  something  you'll  be  glad  to  get,  my 


NEW    FRIENDS. 


Ill 


dear,"  said  Mrs.  Ramsay,  with  a  smile,  holding  up  a 
letter,  on  which  Marjorie  recognized,  with  delight,  the 
dear,  familiar  handwriting  of  her  father. 

"  Yon  must  come  back  and  tell  me  all  your  news 
when  you  have  read  it,  dear,"  said  her  aunt,  as  Mar- 
jorie rushed  off  to  devour  her  letter  all  by  herself  in 
her  own  room.  She  sat  down  with  liobin  in  her  lap, 
and  felt  as  if  she  were  transported  back  to  the  dear 
old  home  in  whi(;h  her  father  and  she  had  had  so  many 
talks  together,  and  as  if  she  could  hear  the  very  tones 
of  his  voice  and  feel  his  hand  on  her  hair. 

The  letter  was  a  pretty  long  one,  and  as  she  opened 
it,  there  dropped  out  of  it  a  folded  printed  paper,  at 
which  she  did  not  look  until  she  had  read  the  letter. 
It  was  written  by  snatches  ;  telling  her,  in  his  own 
characteristic  way,  what  he  had  been  seeing,  and  a 
little,  too,  of  what  he  had  been  thinking  on  his  journey. 
It  contained  many  kind  messages  to  the  Ramsays,  and 
ended  with  a  few  grave  words,  which,  as  Marjorie  well 
knew,  came  from  his  heart : 


"  And  now,  my  Marjorie,  I  have  told  you  sometimes  that  I 
believe  life  is  a  long  education  for  us,  by  which  our  Heavenly 
Father  is  seeking  to  lit  us  for  higher  things  by  and  by.  Your 
school  has  been  changed  just  now.  in  more  senses  than  one;  but 
if  you  are  only  'trusting  and  following,'  you  will  be  learning 
day  by  day  from  the  Great  Teacher.  I  inclose  to  you  —  what  I 
think  you  will  like  to  have  —  the  story  of  the  Northern  Lights 
in  print.  It  is  being  published  now,  and  I  asked  them  to  let  me 
have  a  proof  on  purpose  for  you  —  which  reached  me  yesterday. 


112 


NEW    FRIENDS. 


if 


So  liere  it  is.  You  mif^htkeop  it  in  your  Bible,  and  then  it  will 
remind  you  often  of  our  tall\s  tibout  it.  And  ronieini)er,  dear, 
who  it  was  said  :  '  I  am  tlie  lii^lit  of  tlu;  world ;  he  that  followeth 
me  shall  not  waliv  in  darl^ness,  l)ut  sliall  have  the  light  of  life.' 
That  is  tlie  secret  of  getting  true  light,  and  of  a  true  and  happy 
life." 

Marjorie  wanted  to  sit  clown  and  answer  her  letter 
"  right  off,"  but  she  felt  she  must  first  go  down  and 
read  most  of  the  letter  to  her  aunt,  and  give  all  the 
kind  messages.  And  before  slie  had  finished,  Mr. 
Field  called,  according  to  promise,  and  they  had  a  little 
talk  about  New  York  and  her  father's  journey,  and  the 
attractions  of  Montreal ;  so  that  she  only  got  part  of 
her  letter  written  before  tea.  She  luid  begun  it  the 
day  before,  giving  a  very  detailed  history  of  her  own 
journey  and  arrival,  and  now  she  had  a  great  deal  more 
to  tell.  In  fact,  Alan,  who  came  into  the  ''  study " 
where  she  was  writing,  inquired  if  she  were  writing  a 
book,  and  said  he  was  thankful  boys  were  never  ex- 
pected to  write  letters  like  that.  But  Marjorie  knew 
it  would  not  be  too  long  for  her  father. 

At  teatinie,  when  her  uncle  came  in,  late  and  tired, 
as  he  often  did,  Marjorie's  thoughts  suddenly  reverted 
to  his  poor  patients,  in  whom  she  had  felt  so  much 
interested,  and  she  surprised  him  by  asking  how  they 
were  getting  on  and  if  they  were  really  so  very  poor. 

Dr.  Ramsay  seldom  spoke,  in  his  own  family,  of  the 
sad  sights  he  was  constantly  seeing.  For  one  thing,  he 
himself  wanted  change  of  thought  and  feeling  when 


NEW    FRIENDS. 


113 


he  got  home,  and  for  another,  he  did  not  think  it  right 
to  depress  the  natural  joyousness  of  youth  by  burden- 
ing it  too  soon  with  the  weight  of  the  soriow  and 
suffering  of  life.  But  when,  at  any  time,  he  felt  that 
his  ehildren's  sympathy  could  be  awakened  with  useful 
result,  he  did  not  hesitate  to  appeal  to  it. 

"As  sad  a  case  as  I  ever  met  with,"  he  replied. 
"  But  how  did  you  hear  of  it,  my  dear  ?  " 

Marjorie  briefly  told  of  Miss  Mostyn's  visit  of  appeal 
to  Mrs.  West. 

"  Ah !  well,  I'm  glad  she  went  to  her.  And  I  hope 
she  will  give  something  handsome,  as  she  could  well 
afford  to  do." 

"  She  said  the  firm  had  done  something  for  him 
already,  but  she  gave  Miss  Mostyn  something  —  a 
dollar  —  I  think,"  replied  Marjorie,  hesitating  in  her 
reply  between  the  desire  to  give  her  uncle  information, 
and  an  instinctive  fear  of  violating  the  obligations  of 
hospitality. 

Dr.  Ramsay  said  nothing,  but  made  a  slight  though 
expressive  grimace,  as  he  looked  at  his  wife. 

Mrs.  Ramsay  remarked  gently,  "  Well,  probably 
she  may  feel  interest  enough  to  go  to  see  them,  and  if 
she  does  that,  she  will  feel  that  she  must  do  more." 

"No,  I'm  sure  she  won't,"  exclaimed  Marjorie,  her 
indignation  now  thoroughly  revived  ;  "  for  she  said  she 
hadn't  time,  and  that  such  things  always  upset  her 


I 


so. 


>5 


1 1     ll 


114 


NEW    FRIENDS. 


'llli, 


m 

iii''! 
h 


Dr.  Ramsay  laughed  outright  this  time.  "  Poor 
woman!"  he  exclaimed;  'it's  well  that  we  doctors 
don't  have  such  superfine  feelings !  No,  Alan,  no  re- 
marks, if  you  please.  We  have  no  right  to  judge 
others  for  not  setiing  their  privileges.  But  you  can 
tell  Gerald  about  tiie  case.  It  would  be  a  useful  way 
for  hiin  to  spend  some  of  his  superfluous  pocket-money. 
And  I  have  taken  care  that  they  sha'n't  starve  for  the 
present.  And  your  aunt  is  going  to  see  them  to- 
morrow, so  you  can  go  with  her  if  you  like,  Marjorie, 
to  see  for  yourself.  Jietween  her  and  the  charitable 
dispensary  the  poor  sick  ones  have  been  kept  sup- 
plied with  nourishing  food.  And  as  usual,  the  poor 
neighbors  have  been  very  kind." 

Marjorie's  thoughts  went  swiftly  back  to  the  "  angel " 
her  father  had  seen,  and  what  he  had  said  about  her. 
That  evening,  as  she  finished  her  jcurnal-letter,  she 
concluded  her  narrative  with  the  following  reflection : 

"  You  said  once  that  tlicre  were  a  jyreat  many  '  half-lieathens' 
in  New  York.  I  didn't  know  wliat  you  meant  tlien,  l)ut  I  tliink 
there  must  l)e  a  ^ood  many  in  Montreal,  too.  Ada's  mother,  who 
is  so  rich  and  has  sucli  a  beautiful  house  and  everything  she 
wants,  seemed  to  grudge  to  give  a  dollar  to  a  starving  family, 
though  the  father  had  got  hurt  in  Mr.  West's  business !  So  I 
think  the  light  must  be  'shining  in  darkness'  here,  too,  I'm 
so  glad  you  sent  me  the  Northern  Lights  in  print,  for  I'm  sure 
they'll  all  like  it  here.  I'm  sure  Uncle  and  Aunt  Kamsay  have 
the  '  light  of  life,'  and  I'm  going  to  try  to  '  trust  and  follow,'  so 
as  to  have  it  too ! " 


CHAPTER  VII. 


THE   PROFESSOR  8    STORY. 


^» 


lis 
ink 
ho 
she 

o  I 
I'm 
Bure 
ave 
'  so 


Sunday  was  anothor  bright  clear  day,  decidedly 
milder,  so  that  there  was  nothing*  to  interfere  with  the 
pleasure  of  being  out  of  doors  in  the  pure,  bracing  air. 
Marjorie,  in  her  warm  squirrel  furs,  with  her  dark 
gray  eyes  sparkling  and  her  rather  pale  cheeks  brightly 
tinted  by  the  frosty  air,  looked,  her  aunt  thought,  much 
improved  already,  as  they  took  their  way  to  church  on 
Sunday  morning.  The  long  anxiety  and  watching 
during  her  father's  illness,  and  the  depression  and 
dread  of  the  impending  separation,  had  told  a  good 
deal  on  her  alwaj^s  sensitive  organization ;  but  a  re- 
action had  just  set  in,  and  her  natural  shy  reserve  was 
beginning  to  wear  off  already  under  the  influence  oi 
her  brighter  spirits  and  the  liveliness  of  her  cousins. 
Marion  and  she  seemed  like  old  friends  as  they  walked 
together  to  the  Presbyterian  Church  which  Dr.  Kam- 
say  attended.  Her  father  and  she  had  been  wont  to 
go  to  the  Congregational  Church  at  home,  but  she 
knew  her  father  had   little   respect  for  the   ''isms" 

115 


IIG 


THE   PROFESSORS   STORY. 


which  separate  Christians,  and  Dr.  Ramsay,  though 
attached  to  the  church  in  which  his  forefathers  had 
lived  and  died,  had  just  as  little  respect  for  church- 
ism  as  had  Mr.  Fleming.  "  If  you  don't  love  other 
churches,  you  can't  really  love  your  own ;  for  you 
haven't  got  your  Master's  spirit  in  you,"  he  would  say 
to  his  "  churchy  "  friends,  both  in  his  own  communion 
and  others. 

And  Dr.  Ramsay  had  friends  in  every  denomina- 
tion of  faith.  He  met  them  at  sick  beds  and  in  hos- 
pitals, where  they  learned  to  know  each  other,  and  to 
know,  ♦^^oo,  that  there  are  times  when  all  human  hearts 
must  respond  to  the  same  touch  —  the  gentlest  yet 
strongest  touch  of  all. 

It  was  pleasant  to  walk  to  church  through  the 
throngs  of  church-going  people  that  crossed  one  an- 
other's path  in  every  direction  —  people  of  all  classes 
and  positions.  Sometimes  they  met  a  little  group  of 
long-robed  ecclesiastics,  and  Marjorie  would  explain 
which  particular  confraternity  they  belonged  to ;  or 
some  gray  Sisters  of  Charity  would  be  seen  at  the 
head  of  a  little  band  of  children. 

The  service  was  very  like  the  one  she  was  accus- 
tomed to,  but  the  prayer  for  "  Her  Majesty  the 
Queen  "  reminded  her  that  she  was  no  longer  under 
her  own  country's  flag.  And  yet  she  did  not  feel  like 
"a  stranger  and  a  foreigner,"  worshiping  there  with 
those  who  spoke  the  same  tongue,  prayed  to  the  same 


THE    PROFESSOR  S    STORY. 


117 


le 


God,  loved  the  same  Saviour  and  sang  almost  the 
same  dear  old  hymns  that  they  used  to  sing  at  home. 
Nor  did  the  people  look  very  different,  except  in  their 
warmer  dress ;  at  least  not  the  female  portion  of  the 
congregation.  She  thought  the  men  did  not  look  quite 
so  keen  and  anxious,  and  she  noticed  more  stout  and 
comfortable-looking  elderly  gentlemen  than  she  was 
accustomed  to  see  in  church.  And  she  thought  there 
were  a  great  many  pretty  children. 

Her  observations  rather  distracted  her  attention 
from  the  sermon,  for  Marjorie's  tlioughts  were  very 
apt  to  go  off  roaming  in  the  direction  of  some  passing 
fancy,  which  was  one  reason  why  her  father  liked  her 
to  bring  him  reports  of  the  sermons  she  heard.  But 
she  thought  that  her  father  would  have  liked  this  one, 
which  was  her  usual  way  of  estimating  things  which 
she  did  not  feel  herself  competent  to  criticise,  and  her 
father  had  never  encouraged  her  in  the  slightest 
attempt  at  criticising  a  sermon  since  he  said,  "  if  you 
listen  in  such  a  spirit,  you  will  lose  all  the  good  of  it." 
One  thought  slie  carried  away  for  her  next  letter  to 
her  father  —  because  it  was  so  like  his  own  words  :  that 
the  patient  learner  in  Christ's  school  would  find, 
like  the  learner  in  every  other  school,  tliat  every 
lesson  well  learned  from  the  Master's  teaching,  is  only 
a  stepping-stone  to  the  next  step  of  progress  in  the 
upward  line. 

After  dinner  Marjorie  went  with  Marion  to   her 


iu 


m 


^li  :|y 


r 


118 


THE    PROFESSOR  S    STORY. 


room,  and  they  had  a  nice  quiet  talk  over  their  favorite 
Sunday  books.  Marjorie  was  much  older  in  mind  for 
her  years  than  was  her  cousin,  so  that  they  could  talk 
without  any  sense  of  inequality.  Marion  was  not 
specially  poetical,  but  she  loved  Frances  Havergal's 
poems  for  their  devotional  sweetness,  and  she  enjoyed 
reading  her  favorites  to  Marjorie,  to  whom  they  were 
new.  And  Marjorie  in  turn  read  to  Marion  some  of 
the  poems  from  the  Christian  Year  and  her  precious 
copy  of  Whittier,  which  her  father  had  taught  her  to 
know  and  love  by  reading  them  to  her  on  Sunday 
evenings,  in  his  expressive  and  musical  voice. 

Marion,  however,  went  off  at  tlie  usual  hour  to  teach 
her  Sunday-school  class,  and  Marjorie  went  with  her 
aunt  to  see  the  poor  family.  They  lived  in  one  of  the 
old,  narrow,  dingy  streets  that  abound  in  the  St. 
Antoine  suburb;  and  it  was  sad  enough  to  see  them, 
the  sick  parents  and  the  four  little  children,  pent  up 
in  one  room  not  bigger  than  her  uncle's  dining-room. 
Marjorie  thought  of  the  spacious  magnificence  of  the 
Wests'  luxurious  home,  and  wondered,  as  many  a 
young  soul  has  wondered,  how  such  differences  can  be. 
But  she  noticed  with  surprise  how  brightly  the  man 
spoke  ;  how  gratefully  he  referred  to  Dj-.  Ramsay  as 
the  means,  under  God,  of  saving  his  life,  and  his 
poor  wife's  life  too  ;  and  how  they  could  never  thank 
Mrs.  Ramsay  and  Miss  Mostyn  enough  for  all  their 
kindness ;  and   how  they  hoped,  please  God,  to  see 


THE    PROFESSOR  S    STORY. 


119 


better  days,  for  when  lie  got  the  wooden  leg  the  doctor 
had  sent  for,  he  should  be  able  to  work  as  well  as  ever. 
And  it  made  the  tears  come  to  Marjorie's  eyes  to  see 
the  loving  tenderness  with  which  he  looked  at  the 
poor  little  baby  when  Mrs.  Ramsay  took  it  into  her 
arms,  and  with  which  he  remarked  that  "  the  little 
thing  was  welcome,  though  it  did  come  in  hard  times." 

"  Well,  Marjorie,"  said  her  aunt,  as  they  left  the 
house,  "  you  see  there's  always  some  light  in  the  dark- 
ness, after  all,  if  people  only  open  their  eyes  to  see  it." 

The  expression  sent  Marjorie's  thoughts  off  to  her 
father  and  their  talk.  So  when  she  had  come  in,  and 
had  carried  down  her  books  to  read  by  the  drawing- 
room  fire,  she  re-read  the  story  of  the  Northern 
Lights  which  she  had  put  into  her  Bible.  And 
when  the  four  younger  children  came  in  from  Sunday 
school,  and  Norman  and  Efifie  rushed  to  her  demand- 
ing a  story,  and  Jack  and  Millie  endorsed  the  request, 
she  thought  she  could  not  do  better  than  tell  them,  in 
the  simplest  rendering  she  could  improvise,  the  story 
of  the  Northern  Lights. 

They  all  listened  attentivel}^  though  Jack  and  Millie 
appreciated  the  allegory  more  than  the  two  little  ones. 
The  wintry  dusk  was  closing  in  and  the  firelight  only 
lighted  up  the  room,  so  Marjorie  did  not  notice  that 
Alan  and  Gerald  had  stolen  quietly  in  just  before  she 
had  concluded. 

"Where  did  you  get  that  story,  Marjorie?  "  asked 


I 


uM- 


I!  fl; 


120 


THE    PROFESSORS    STORY. 


|i     ]■■ 


I 


Alan  ;  "  you'll  have  to  tell  it  over  again  to  us."  Then 
Gerald  explained  that  he  had  come  to  ask  if  Marjorie 
would  go  to  the  English  Cathedral  that  evening  with 
Ada,  and  Mrs.  Ramsay  had  said  he  might  stay  for  tea 
and  take  Marjorie  to  meet  Ada  at  church,  if  she  wished 
to  go.  Marjorie  was  very  willing  to  agree  to  this  ar- 
rangement, for  she  liked  the  Episcopal  service  very 
much,  and  Alan  told  her  she  would  hear  both  good 
music  and  a  good  sermon. 

"  There's  Professor  Duncan  I  "  exclaimed  Millie,  as 
her  ear  caught  his  voice  talking  to  her  father  in  the 
hall,  and  she  and  Jack  ran  to  meet  their  favorite.  He 
came  in  with  Dr.  Ramsay,  one  of  his  arms  resting  on 
the  shoulder  of  each  of  the  two  children.  His  strong 
face  was  lighted  up  with  a  most  benignant  smile  in 
which  he  included  Marjorie,  when  she  was  formally 
introduced  by  the  eager  Millie. 

"  Ah !  so  this  is  the  young  lady  I  met  in  the  book- 
store yesterday.  And  so  you  are  Mrs.  Ramsay's  niece, 
my  dear?  Do  you  know,  I  was  looking  at  you  and 
trying  to  think  what  the  likeness  was  that  was  puzzling 
me?  I  see  it  now,  though.  I  once  traveled  to  New 
York  with  your  father,  and  that  is  a  face,  and  a  man, 
too,  that  one  doesn't  easily  forget." 

Marjorie  colored  deeply  with  pleasure  at  this  men- 
tion of  her  father.     And  then  Millie  exclaimed : 

"  O,  Professor  Duncan  !  you  must  make  her  tell  you 
the  story  she  has  just  been  telling  us.     It's  such  a 


THE   PROFESSOR  S    STORY. 


121 


rou 
a 


pretty  one,  and  then  it's  a  parable,  and  you  like  para- 
bles.    It's  about  the  Northern  Lights." 

"  I'll  be  delighted  to  hear  it,"  said  the  professor, 
settling  himself  comfortably  in  one  easy-chair,  while  Dr. 
Ramsay  threw  himself  into  another.  "  I'm  just  as 
fond  of  stories  as  these  folks  here  —  and  much  fonder 
of  parables,  I  know,  than  I  was  at  their  age." 

Marjorie  had  often  been  exhorted  by  her  father  to 
do  a  thing  —  when  she  was  asked  to  do  it  —  as  well  as 
she  could,  and  without  making  any  fuss  about  it,  as 
some  girls  were  apt  to  do.  So  she  overcame  her  shy- 
ness of  strangers,  and  only  said  that  she  would  rather 
read  the  story  as  her  fatlier  had  sent  it  to  her  in  print. 

So  a  lamp  was  lighted,  and  Marjorie  read  it  in  a 
very  clear  and  expressive  voice,  trying  to  reproduce  it 
just  as  her  father  had  first  read  it  to  her.  IVIrs.  Ram- 
say and  Marion  had  come  in  too.  and  all  listened  at- 
tentively, but  Professor  Duncan  never  took  his  deep- 
set  eyes  off  the  young  reader  till  the  last  word  had 
been  read. 

"  Do  you  know,  I  like  that  very  much  ?  "  he  said, 
"capital  idea!  It's  just  what  I'm  always  telling  these 
children  about  in  some  form  or  other.  We've  had 
just  such  solitary  Northern  Lights  here  in  Camada, 
shining  in  the  darkness.  And  by  the  way,  Ramsay, 
what  do  you  think  about  brave  Gordon  all  alone 
there  ?  Do  you  think  Stewart  will  be  able  to  manage 
to  reach  him  ?  " 


J: 


4; 


ill  s; 


.},  A 


122 


THE   PROFESSOR  S    STORY. 


*'  I  wish  they  coukl  do  it  a  little  quicker,"  said  Dr. 
Ramsay.  "  And  I  wish  jioor  Gordon  could  know  how 
many  hearts  are  throbbing  with  eager  desire  to  hear 
of  his  relief.  It  would  cheer  him  up  a  bit  in  that 
terrible  isolation." 

"Not  alone;  his  Father  is  with  him,"  said  Pro- 
fessor Duncan  solemnly.  "  We  may  be  sure  of  that ! 
If  ever  a  man  lived  as  '  seeing  the  invisible,'  you  may 
be  sure  he  does." 

"  Kiglit,  Duncan,  right !  "  exclaimed  Dr.  Ramsay  ; 
"  would  we  were  all  like  him  in  that." 

But  Millie  was  eager  to  make  her  request  of  Pro- 
fessor Duncan.  It  was  that  he  would  tell  them,  for 
Marjorie's  benefit,  her  favorite  story  of  Isaac  Jogues. 

"  Well,  I've  told  it  so  often  that  I  should  think  you 
would  know  it  by  heart.  But  I  don't  mind  telling  it 
again  if  it  won't  bore  your  mother  and  father." 

"  Your  stories  never  bore  me,  Duncan,  you  know 
very  well,"  said  Dr.  Ramsay. 

"  Do  you  know,  Ramsay,"  said  the  professor,  fixing 
his  deep,  thoughtful  eyes  on  the  flame  that  was  leap- 
ing up  from  a  lump  of  black  coal,  "  it's  pleasant  to 
set  such  a  story  as  that  of  Isaac  eTogues  beside  the 
■prefvnt  interest  in  our  living,  struggling  Gordon  -  -  liv- 
lu  -<tr*l.  I  trust  at  least !  It  makes  one  realize  the 
r.nr.j  e^  i,he  Christian  life  and  spirit ;  one  under  all 
^'f^^'f  .ces  of  time  and  character  and  creed;  the  one 
inextinguishable  persistent  power  of  divine  love  and 


't. 


THE    PROFESSOR  S    STORY 


123 


sacrifice,  leaping  up  even  from  our  dark  humanity,  as 
that  flame  leaps  up  from  that  black  coal,  the  latent 
power  of  the  light  and  heat  that  have,  somehow  or 
other,  pervaded  its  very  essence."  And  then  he  re- 
})eated  in  a  low,  half-soliloquizing  tone  the  lines  Mar- 
jorie  had  heard  so  often  from  her  father : 


"  Wherever  through  the  ages  rise 
The  altars  of  self-sacritlce  ; 
Where  Love  its  arms  hatli  opened  wide, 
And  man  for  man  hath  calmly  died, 
I  see  the  same  white  wings  outspread 
That  hovered  o'er  the  Master's  head !  " 


"Oh!"  exclaimed  Marjorie  half -audibly,  with  an 
involuntary  expression  of  recognition. 

"What  is  it?"  asked  Professor  Duncan,  glancing 
at  her  with  quick  interest. 

"  Oh  !  nothing ;  only  my  father  is  so  fond  of  that 
poem.  It  seemed  so  strange  to  hear  you  repeating  it," 
explained  Marjorie. 

"  Yes  ;  I  should  quite  imagine  that  would  be  one  of 
his  favorites,"  said  Professor  Duncan.  "  Rut  you 
know  you  haven't  got  a  monopoly  of  Whittier  over 
there  any  more  than  we  have  of  Tennyson.  We  love 
your  Quaker  poet,  some  of  us,  quite  as  much  as  any 
of  his  countrymen  can  do. 

"  But  now  I  see  Millie  is  thinking  I  have  forgotten 
Jogues.     Well,  Miss  Marjorie,  as  it  is  for  your  bene- 


m 


if] 


1 


•        i 


w 


ll 


I'  ' 


124 


THE   PROFESSOR  S   STORY. 


fit  I  am  to  tell  it,  let  me  ask  you  first  if  you  have 
read  Parkman's  History  of  the  Jesuits  in  North 
America." 

"  No,"  Marjorie  said  ;  "  papa  always  said  I  must 
read  all  Parkman's  books  by  and  by.  But  he  said  it 
needed  cour.age  to  read  that  one." 

"  So  it  does,  my  dear ;  Christian  courage,  that  is ! 
There  are  things  in  it  too  dreadful  for  tender-hearted 
girls  to  read,  unless  indeed  they  can  appreciate  the 
compensations,  which  all  can't  do  !  If  we  could  only 
feel  what  is  in  a  martyr's  heart  when  he  suffers,  I  fancy 
we  could  bear  to  hear  of  his  sufferings  as  calmly  as  he 
takes  them.  We  don't  realize  the  truth  of  the  promise, 
'  As  thy  day  is,  so  shall  thy  strength  be ! ' 

"  Well,  if  you  haven't  read  Parkman,  you  don't  know, 
perhaps,  how,  when  the  Christian  church  at  large  hadn't 
yet  waked  up  to  its  missionary  duty,  some  earnest  men, 
zealous  even  to  fanaticism,  banded  themselves  together 
to  extend  Christianity  according  to  their  lights,  and 
called  themselves  the  '  Society  of  Jesus  ; '  we  call  them 
the  Jesuits.  And,  after  Jacques  Cartier's  discovery  of 
Canada,  and  the  visits  of  other  adventurers  had  opened 
up  a  new  continent  to  the  ambition  of  France,  as  well 
as  other  countries,  an  intense  enthusiasm  arose  there, 
led  by  the  Jesuits,  to  convert  the  wild,  roving,  miser- 
able Indians  to  the  true  faith.  Queens  and  noble 
ladies  and  knights  and  noblemen  vied  with  each  other 
in  their  zeal  and  liberality  to  help  in  this  great  enter- 


THE   PROFESSORS   STORY. 


125 


prise.  And  the  Order  of  the  Jesuits  supplied  one 
brave  hero  after  another,  ready  to  devote  himself  for 
life  to  this  noble  endeavor,  and  ready,  too,  to  meet 
with  joy  not  only  exile  from  all  he  held  dear  on  earth 
and  from  all  the  eonifor+s  of  the  most  civilized  social 
life  in  the  world,  but  also  cold,  starvation,  sufferings 
of  all  kinds,  and  even  death  by  the  most  horrible  tor- 
tures, always  contemplated  as  a  not  remote  possibility, 
and  with  terrible  examples  constantly  before  their 
eyes." 

Professor  Duncan  raised  himself  a  little  in  his  chair, 
and  drew  a  long  breath,  as  if  himself  oppressed  by  the 
mental  image  he  had  conjured  up.  Then  he  went  on 
again : 

"  It  seems  almost  wrong  to  exalt  any  one  individual 
above  another,  among  so  many  brave,  enthusiastic  men, 
all  self-devoted  to  their  object  —  from  the  brave  soldier 
Cham  plain  himself,  who  declared  that  the  conversion 
of  a  single  soul  was  better  than  the  discovery  of  a 
continent,  down  to  the  humblest  adonne^  or  lay 
brother,  who  because  he  had  not  learning  nor  riches  to 
give,  was  said  more  especially  to  have  given  himself! 
But  yet,  to  my  mind,  the  story  of  Isaac  Jogues  is  one 
that  for  tender  pathos  and  grand  simplicity  and  un- 
conscious humility  and  noble,  self-forgetful  devotion 
is  the  most  touching  and  beautiful  of  all  the  heroic 
stories  of  these  true-hearted  Christian  men. 

"  Well,  you  must   know,  Miss  Marjorie,"  he  con- 


*\ 


;  r  : 

4K! 


jM, 


THE   I'KOFESSOK  S    STORY. 


tinued,  "  that  the  conversion  of  the  great  Huron  nation 
or  tribe  was  the  special  object  of  all  these  heroic  mis- 
sions. The  Algoiiqiiins,  and  their  rehitions,  the  Hurons, 
were,  from  the  time  of  Champlain,  the  fast  friends  of 
the  French,  who  liad  always  treated  them  kindly,  and 
who  unfortunately  took  up  arms  to  aid  them  in  their 
great  and  destructive  feud  with  the  Iroquois.  This 
was  a  great  and  fatal  mistake  of  Chami)laiu's.  The 
white  men  should  have  used  their  influence  to  make 
peace  among  these  warring  tribes,  instead  of  taking 
sides  in  their  cruel  warfare.  But  he  thought  that  if 
he  could  help  the  Hurons  to  conquer  the  ferocious 
Iroquois,  he  would  have  no  difficulty  in  establishing 
the  French  ascendancy  in  North  America.  But  un- 
fortunately the  Iroquois  had  white  allies  too.  The 
Dutch  traders  who  had  settled  in  New  York,  and  the 
English  settlers  of  New  England,  were  jealous  of 
the  French,  and  willing  enough  to  help  the  Iroquois 
by  supplying  them  with  fire-arms  for  the  "  thunder- 
bolts "  they  had  first  seen  Champlain  use,  with  such 
terrible  effect.  In  fact,  it  was  their  policy  always  to 
use  them  as  a  breastwork  against  the  advances  of  the 
French. 

"  It  was  about  1640  that  a  terrible  series  of  Iroquois 
incursions  began  to  harass  the  French  colonists  and  the 
Jesuit  Missions.  Here  in  Ville  Marie,  as  Montreal 
was  then  called,  the  few  settlers  were  in  constant  peril 
of  their  lives,  and  skirmishing  bands  of  the  Iroquois 


THE   I'KOFESSOK  S    STORY. 


127 


ll 


s 
e 
ll 

il 


were  perpetually  hovering  about  the  St.  Lawrence  and 
the  Ottawa  to  wayhiy  and  capture  any  passing  canoes ; 
for  these  were  the  great  highways  down  which  the 
Hurons  used  to  come,  from  their  western  towns  and 
villages,  to  trade  with  the  French.  The  »Jcsuit  mis- 
sionaries had,  with  great  peril  and  difficulty,  established 
a  mission  on  the  wihl  sliores  of  Lake  Huron.  They 
had  a  central  mission-house,  where  lived  some  ten  or 
twelve  of  the  devoted  brethren,  and  from  which  they 
went  out,  generally  two  and  two,  on  preaching  and 
visiting  tours  among  the  Huron  villages,  healing  the 
sick,  when  they  could,  by  their  simple  remedies,  baptiz- 
ing the  Indians  and  their  children,  when  permitted,  and 
certainly  by  degrees  winning  these  savage  hearts  to 
feel  that  this  new  religion  they  taught  was  a  religion 
of  love  and  mercy. 

"  Among  the  pious  brethren  assembled  at  Sainte 
Marie,  then  their  central  mission  station,  was  Isaac 
Jogues,  who  came  to  join  the  Canadian  mission  in 
1636,  as  a  young  man  still  under  thirty.  He  was  deli- 
cately moulded  in  face  and  figure,  sensitively  organized, 
and,  don't  forget  this  by  and  by,  constitutionally 
timid.  He  was  a  scholar  and  a  student,  and  doubtless 
had  had  his  own  literary  ambitions,  but  his  deep  re- 
ligious nature  and  sensitive  conscience  had  led  him  to 
become  a  Jesuit,  and  to  join  this  brave  band  in  the  wild 
West.  Though  far  from  robust,  either  physically  or 
even  perhaps  mentally,  he  was  light  and  active,  a  Heet 


E- 


l 


:3 


128 


THE   PROFESSORS    STOUY. 


vm> 


runner,  and,  as  you  shall  see  in  the  end,  his  spirit  was 
simply  unconquerable  !  He  was  one  of  two  men  —  the 
other  as  delicately  constituted  as  he — brave  (iarnier, 
who  were  sent  on  one  of  the  most  perilous  missions 
among  these  (ireat  Lakes,  that  to  a  fierce  tribe  called 
the  Tobacco  Nation.  Starved,  hooted,  dreaded  as  con- 
jurors, their  lives  ('onstantly  menaced,  they  wandered 
through  the  snow-blocked  forest,  from  one  miserable 
cluster  of  bark  cabins  to  another,  seeking  to  gain  a 
hearing  for  their  message  of  love.  But  as  yet,  all 
hearts  and  homes  were  sullenly  closed  against  them, 
and  they  only  escaped  with  their  lives  under  cover  of 
darkness,  from  a  band  of  young  men  who  pursued 
them  with  their  tomahawks,  intent  on  their  destruction. 
Another  perilous  pilgrimage  he  had,  soon  after  that, 
with  another  brother,  Kaymbault,  along  the  shore  of 
Lake  Superior,  preaching  on  one  occasion  to  an 
assembly  of  some  two  thousand  Ojibways,  a  branch  of 
the  Algonquins. 

"But  there  was  a  still  more  perilous  mission  to  be 
undertaken,  and  Jogues  was  the  man  chosen  for  it. 
This  was  to  go  down  to  Quebec,  by  the  Iroquois- 
infested  St.  Lawrence,  with  the  canoes  of  some  Huron 
traders,  to  get  the  various  supplies  needed  for  the 
mission,  which  were  quite  exhausted.  The  long  voyage 
du»»n  the  Ottawa  and  the  St.  Lawrence  was  accom- 
plished safely  ;  and  Jogues  set  out  on  his  return,  with 
tlie  prayers  and  blessings  of  his  brethren  at  Quebec, 


Iri      % 


THE    PROFESSOR  8    STORY. 


129 


taking  b;iek  with  him  two  young  hiy  brothers,  who 
were  euger  to  take  part  in  tlie  Huron  mission.  They 
had  a  convoy  of  twelve  canoes,  most  of  tliese  being 
filled  with  Huron  traders,  still  heathen,  while  there 
were  also  a  few  Christian  Indians,  one  of  them  a 
noted  chief. 

"The  little  fleet  was  quietly  gliding  through  a  long 
stretch  of  bulrushes  on  Lake  St.  Peter,  on  their  way 
up  here,  when  the  Iroquois  war-whoop,  and  the  whistling 
of  bullets,  announced  the  dreaded  enemy,  whose  war 
canoes  bore  down  on  them  from  their  ambuscade. 
The  Hurons  were  panic-stricken.  Tiie  heathen  Indians 
leaped  ashore  and  made  for  the  woods.  The  Christian 
Hurons  rallied  to  the  support  of  the  French  at  first, 
but  the  sight  of  another  ajjproaching  fleet  of  canoes 
put  them  all  to  flight.  Goupil,  one  of  the  young  lay 
brothers,  was  captured,  and  Jogues,  who  might  have 
escaped,  would  not  desert  his  friend,  and  surrendered 
himself  to  the  astonished  savages  who  were  guarding 
the  prisoners. 

"Forgetting  himself,  Jogues  began  to  baptize  the 
poor  captives.  The  other  lay  brother,  a  fine  fellow 
named  Couture,  also  escaped  at  first,  and  also  returned 
to  share  the  fate  of  his  friends.  Unhappily,  in  a 
moment  of  excitement.  Couture  fired  his  gun  and  shot 
an  Indian  who  had  presented  his  own  weapon  at  him. 
The  Iroquois  sprang  upon  him  like  savage  beasi^}, 
and  Jogues  ran  to  try  to  shield  Couture.     But  the 


11 


«i 


•  !  *  W 


IH   ■ -t-M 


130 


THE    riiOFESSOIt  S    STORY. 


h  J 


enraged  Iroquois  beat  and  mutilated  the  three  unfortu- 
nate missionaries,  even  gnawing  their  hands  like 
savage  dogs,  as  was  their  brutal  custom  with  their 
prisoners.  Then  they  and  the  other  captives  were 
carried  off  in  the  canoes  of  the  marauders,  up  the 
winding  Richelieu  and  across  the  beautiful  Lake 
Champlain,  to  the  charming  solitudes  of  Lake  George, 
of  which  Jogues  was  thus  the  tirst  discoverer,  and 
which  should  have  borne  his  name.  But  he  was 
thinking  little  of  discovery  then ;  indeed,  it  was  a 
wonder  he  was  alive  !  For  on  the  way  they  reached 
a  large  camp  of  the  Irocpiois,  and  there  they  were 
again  brutally  beaten,  lacerated  and  tortured,  till 
Jogues,  who,  as  chief  man,  fared  the  worst,  was  half- 
dead. 

"  It  would  be  too  painful  for  me  to  tell,  or  for  you 
to  hear,  about  all  the  sufferings  of  the  blood-tracked 
pilgrimage,  across  the  primeval  wilderness,  through 
which  one  now  travels  so  swiftly,  to  the  palisaded 
Iroquois  town  on  the  Mohawk,  where  the  same  horrible 
scenes  of  torture  were  rejieatcul  with  redoubled  fury. 
The  Iroquois  must  have  seemed  like  demons  of  hell  to 
the  maimed  and  suffering  missionaries.  Yet  even 
when  enduring  the  full  force  of  their  savage  fury, 
Jogues  was  thinking  of  the  perishing  souls  about  him, 
and  as,  you  know,  these  Jesuits  esteemed  baptism 
of  supreme  importance,  poor  Jogues  managed  to  bap- 
tize two  of  the  dying  Huron  captives  with  the  rain- 


i: 


Ill 


THE    PROFESSOR  S   STORY. 


131 


m  1 


drops  he  found  on  an  ear  of  Indian  corn  given  to  him 
for  food ! 

"  Couture,  whose  bohhiess  had  gained  the  admiration 
of  the  Indians,  though  he  had  made  them  so  angry  by 
killing  one  of  their  braves,  was  saved  from  further 
tortures  by  being  adopted  into  an  Iroquois  family. 
Goupil,  to  whom  Jogues  had  sacrificed  his  liberty, 
was  murdered  by  his  side,  and  so  he  also  had  his 
release  ;  and  flogues  was  left  alone.  lie  was  anxious 
to  give  to  Goupil's  remains  a  Christian  burial,  but  the 
Iroquois  hid  the  body  from  him,  and  he  had  to  read  the 
service  of  the  dead  over  the  spot  where  it  had  lain. 
When  the  snows  were  melting  he  found  some  pitiful 
relics  of  the  corpse,  and  gave  them  the  only  inte^'uient 
he  could,  in  a  hollow  tree. 

"  It  seemed  like  a  living  death  that  poor  Jogues 
had  to  endure  that  winter  among  his  pitiless  foes. 
They  would  not  kill  him  outright,  but  made  him  their 
slave,  and  dragged  him  with  them  through  the  wintry 
forest  on  their  hunting  expeditions,  when  he  almost 
starved  be(^ause  he  would  not  touch  the  food  they 
caught,  devoted  by  them  to  their  divinity  of  tliC  chase, 
or,  as  Jogues  put  it,  to  a  demon.  As  he  had  no  quiet 
in  their  wigwams  for  meditation  and  j)rayer,  he 
arranged  an  oratory  for  himself  in  a  lonely  s])ot  in  the 
forest.  He  cut  out  in  the  bark  of  a  great  tree  a  cross 
—  the  symbol  of  his  faith  and  of  his  present  martyr- 
dom —  and  there,  amid  snowdrifts  and  icicles,  he  would 


It 


lil  } 


' 


•bH 


^r 


•1- . 

,  ii 


:•( 


132 


THE   PROFESSOR  S   STORY. 


kneel  in  his  shaggy  garment  of  furs,  and  pray  to  Him 
who  was  as  near  to  his  suffering  servant  there  as  to 
the  exiled  apostle  in  Patmos.  If  He  had  not  been, 
how  could  Jogues  ever  have  lived  through  those  days  ? 

"  At  last,  however,  his  masters  growing  tired  of  their 
patient  slave,  sent  him  back  to  the  village,  and  there  he 
remained  till  spring,  trying  to  teach  the  savages  about 
Him  ;  telling  them  something  of  the  glories  of  the 
sun  and  moon  and  stars,  and  something,  too,  of  Him 
who  had  made  them.  But  there  they  would  not  follow 
him,  any  more  than  the  heathen  Greeks  at  the 
opposite  pole  of  civilization  would  follow  St.  Paul. 

"  At  last,  after  more  adventures  tnan  I  can  tell  you 
now,  he  went  about  midsummer  with  a  party  of  Iro- 
quois to  a  fishing  place  on  the  Hudson,  below  Fort 
Orange ;  that  is  where  Albany  now  stands." 

Marjorie  remembered  the  busy  city  and  bustling 
terminus  she  had  so  lately  passed,  and  tried,  with  a 
new  interest,  to  recall  the  features  of  the  surrounding 
scenery. 

"  Fort  Orange  was  just  a  little  rude  fort  of  logs  and 
palisades,  after  the  fashion  of  those  times,  with  a  few 
scattered  homes  of  settlers  about  it,  and  close  to  it  a 
little  Dutch  church.  I  suppose  this  was  the  first 
Protestant  church  that  Jogues  had  ever  seen.  Its 
pastor  was  a  certain  Dominie  Megapolensis,  who  wrote 
a  little  history  of  the  Mohawks.  It  is  pleasant  to 
know  that  these  two  good  men  met  each  other ;  and  I 


THE   PROFESSOR  8    STORY. 


133 


am  sure,  after  his  year's  exile  among  heathen  savages, 
that  Jogues  was  glad  to  find  that  the  Protestants  — 
whom  he  had  been  taught  to  call  '  heretics '  —  were 
fellow-Christians,  after  all. 

"  While  Jogues  was  near  Fort  Orange,  he  heard 
news  that  made  him  both  desire  and  dread  to  return 
to  the  Mohawk  town.  He  heard  first,  that  one  of  the 
Iroquois  war  parties  had  come  in  from  Canada  with 
prisoners,  doomed  to  the  usual  fate,  and  he  felt  that 
he  ought  to  be  there  to  baptize  and  absolve  the 
sufferers.  But  then,  too,  he  heard  that  a  party  which 
had  gone  to  Three  Rivers,  carrying  a  letter  from  him 
to  the  French  commandant  —  which  was  really  a  warn- 
ing letter,  though  they  didn't  know  it  —  had  been 
repulsed  by  the  French  with  heavy  loss,  and  that  his 
death  was  certain  from  the  enraged  Iroquois  if  he 
ventured  back.  Van  Curler,  a  leading  Dutch  settler, 
who,  to  his  honor,  had  already  tried  to  ransom  Jogues, 
now  urged  him  to  escape  from  this  imminent  peril,  and 
offered  him  a  passage  in  a  little  Dutch  vessel  about  to 
sail  for  France.  We  can  imagine  how  poor  Jogues' 
heart  must  have  throbbed  at  the  thought  of  seeing  his 
native  land  and  his  friends  once  more,  after  all  his  un- 
speakable sufferings.  But  he  was  not  sure  whether 
he  ought  to  save  his  own  life,  or  go  back  to  try  to  save 
the  souls  of  the  unhappy  captives  ;  so  to  Van  Curler's 
amazement  he  asked  to  have  a  night  for  consideration 
and  prayer. 


I     ¥ 


II 


: !  I 


I     i  4  ■%': 


^  llll 

a,     e   h.   SAfS 


'9 


I 


134 


THE    PROFESSOR  S    STORY. 


"  I  am  sure  you  will  be  glad  to  hear  that  he  decided 
that  '  mercy  was  better  than  sacrifice,'  even  where  he 
himself  was  to  be  the  sacrifice,  and  that  it  was  his  duty 
to  save  his  own  life  when  so  good  an  opportunity  was 
providentially  offered,  rather  than  expose  himself  to 
certain  tortures  and  death  for  the  sake  of  trying  to  do 
for  others  what  he  might  never  be  permitted  to  do. 
So  he  accepted  Van  Curler's  offer  with  grateful  thanks, 
and  a  boat  was  left  on  the  shore,  to  enable  him  to 
reach  the  vessel.  He  had  to  steal  away  at  night  from 
the  large,  barn-like  house  in  which  he  and  his  Indian 
companions  slept,  along  with  the  settler's  family.  He 
got  away  at  last,  but  not  without  being  severely  bitten 
in  the  leg  by  the  settler's  dog,  and  with  much  difficulty 
succeeded  in  pushing  off  the  heavy  boat,  left  high  and 
dry  by  the  tide,  and  in  reaching  the  vessel.  Even 
then,  however,  his  troubles  were  not  over.  The 
Indians,  furious  at  his  escape,  searched  for  him  every- 
where, and  even  came  to  look  tor  him  in  the  vessel 
where  the  sailors  had  hidden  him  as  securely  as  they 
could.  Fearing  lest  he  might  be  found  there,  the 
captain  of  the  vessel  had  him  taken  to  the  fort,  where 
he  was  lodged  in  the  garret  of  a  miserly  old  Dutch- 
man, who  kept  goods  for  selling  to  th«  Indians  close 
to  Jogues'  hiding-place,  and  separated  from  it  by  a 
partition  so  thin  that  they  could  have  seen  him  if  he 
had  not  hidden  himself  behind  a  pile  of  boards.  He 
was  a  prisoner  here  for  six  weeks,  and  the  old  Dutch- 


THE    PROFESSOR  S    STORY. 


135 


man  ate  most  of  the  food  that  was  sent  him,  so  he  was 
nearly  starved,  and  his  wounded  leg  was  very  painful, 
too.  The  Dutch  minister  visited  him,  and  did  all  he 
could  to  cheer  him  in  his  solitude.  They  must  have 
talked  a  good  deal  together,  for  the  good  pastor  writes 
of  him  in  his  history,  as  a  '  very  learned  scholar.'  If 
you  stop  in  Albany  on  your  way  home,  and  pass  the 
Phoenix  Hotel,  remember  that  it  stands  on  the  very 
site  of  this  first '  Evangelical  Alliance  '  meeting  in  Amer- 
ica, between  a  Dutch  pastor  and  a  Jesuit  missionary. 

"  At  last  the  settlers,  who,  of  course,  did  not  want 
to  quarrel  with  the  Indians,  succeeded  in  pacifying 
them  with  a  large  ransom  for  their  captive ;  and  the 
Director-General  of  Manhattan  —  as  you  know  New 
York  was  called  then  —  sent  for  Jogues  to  be  brought 
to  him  on  a  small  vessel  going  down  the  Hudson.  So 
the  poor  fugitive  missionary  sailed  down  that  beautiful 
river,  then  in  all  its  native  wildness,  and  reached 
the  straggling  village,  clustered  round  a  dila})idated 
fort,  where  now  stretches  over  so  many  miles,  your 
great  city  of  New  York.  Yet  even  then,  with  its  four 
or  five  hundred  colonists,  it  was  almost  as  cosmopolitan 
as  now ;  for  thirteen  languages  were  spoken  there 
at  the  time  of  Jogues'  visit.  A  bloody  Indian  war 
was  raging  just  then,  and  he  must  have  felt  pursued 
by  the  demon  of  carnage,  for  many  of  tlie  settlers  v/ere 
killed  during  his  visit.  The  Dutch  Director-General 
received  him   very  kindly,  and  gave  him  a  suit  of  fine 


I 


"T  11 


U 

s 

P 

■1 

iJl 

i 

,] 

136 


THE    PROFESSOR  S    STORY. 


cloth  to  replace  his  tattered,  savage  garments.  They 
paid  him  the  honor,  too,  of  giving  his  name  to  Jogu?s 
Island  in  thv  \  -  -^'jr.  Finally  lie  was  taken  on  board  a 
small  sailing  vessel,  which  would  at  least  carry  him 
across  the  sea  to  England. 

"  There  was  but  little  comfort  even  here  for  the 
refined  and  cv  '  • '  Frencli  scholar.      He  had  for  a 

bed  a  coil  of  ro}ic  <leok,  where  the  waves  often 

drenched  hia  clothing.  C  a  Lis  n.rrival  in  the  English 
port,  new  troiiblt,  '^litec)  - :  for  a  gang  of  ruffians 
boarded  and  robbed  ill.,  ^u  i  while  its  crew  were 
carousing  on  shore  ;  and  Jogues  was  left  coatless  and 
hatless  once  more. 

"  At  last,  however,  he  got  a  passage  across  the 
Channel  in  a  coaling  vessel,  and  was  safely  landed  on 
the  coast  of  Brittany  on  Christmas  Eve,  in  time  for 
midnight  mass.  Now  he  was  at  home !  He  asked 
shelter  in  a  humble  cottage,  where  he  was  hospitably 
received,  but  where,  at  first,  by  reason  of  his  uncon- 
ventional attire,  he  was  taken  for  a  poor  but  pious 
Irishman.  But  when  his  hosts  found  out  something 
of  his  history,  and  saw  his  scarred  and  mutilated, 
hands,  their  simple  hearts  were  overcome  with  love 
and  reverence.  They  gave  him  a  woolen  cap,  or 
tuque,  for  his  hatless  head,  and  the  peasant's  daughters 
presented  him  with  their  own  little  treasure  of  hoarded 
sous.  And,  mounted  on  a  horse  borrowed  from  a 
trader  of  Rennes,  he  made    his    way,    on    Christmas 


THE   PROFESSOR  8   STORY. 


137 


morning,  to  the  Jesuit  College  of  the  town,  which  he 
reached  just  before  mass.  He  sent  word  by  the  porter 
to  the  rector,  just  putting  on  his  vestments,  that  a 
poor  man  just  arrived  from  (>anada  was  waiting  to  see 
him,  and  the  rector,  eager  for  news  of  the  mission, 
came  at  once  to  the  vestibule,  where  stood  this  poorly- 
dressed  and  weather-beaten  stranger.  The  rector  had 
many  questions  to  ask,  but  erelong  came  this :  'And 
what  of  Jogues  ?  Is  he  dead  ?  Have  the  Indians 
killed  him  ? ' 

" '  He  is  alive  and  well,  and  I  am  he  I  '  was  the 
reply.  It  is  easier  to  imagine  than  to  describe  the 
effect  it  produced.  That  must  have  been  a  joyful 
Christmas  Day  in  the  Jesuit  community,  and  their 
morning  mass  must  have  been  one  of  heartfelt  gratitude 
and  praise." 

There  was  a  little  pause.  Marjorie  drew  a  long 
breath,  and  exclaimed : 

"  Oh !  I  am  so  glad  he  got  safely  back,"  and  Ger- 
ald, who  had  also  been  listening  with  fascinated 
attention,  muttered  to  Alan  :  "  Well,  he  was  a  plucky 
fellow ! " 

"  Oh !  but  that's  not  the  end  of  it,"  explained 
Millie  eagerly. 

"  No,"  said  Professor  Duncan  ;  "  I  sometimes  wish 
it  were  I  It  would  be  pleasant  to  leave  him  to  rest 
and  meditate  in  the  quiet  cloister  for  the  remainder  of 
his  life,  feted  and  lionized  as  he  could  have  been,  had 


138 


THE    PROFESSOR  8    STORY. 


{      I 


ii       4,  _ 


he  chosen,  and  telling  wonderful  stories  of  his  adven- 
tures to  admiring-  votaries.  The  French  Queen  sent 
for  him,  and  she  and  her  ladies  felt  it  an  honor  to 
kneel  and  kiss  the  hands  so  mutilated  by  the  Indians. 
The  Pope  sent  him  a  special  dispensation  to  enable 
him  to  say  mass,  which  you  know  a  priest  who  is 
maimed  in  any  way  is  debarred  from  doing.  If  any 
man  might  have  been  justified  for  preferring  to  remain 
at  home  in  safety,  and  not  again  risking  exposure  to 
those  savage  tormentors,  Jogues  was  that  man.  But 
when  the  spirit  of  self-sacrificing  love  has  once  taken 
possession  of  a  heart,  it  must  go  on  in  its  divine  mis- 
sion. Jogues  was  a  young  man  yet,  and  his  indomi- 
table spirit  had  not  been  vanquished  by  suffering. 
He  shrank  from  lionizing  homage,  and  cared  only  to 
follow  his  Master.  So  in  the  following  spring  he 
returned  to  the  Canadian  mission,  and  surely  it  was 
the  nobler  course. 

"  For  the  next  two  years  he  lived  here  in  Montreal, 
where  he  found  plenty  of  work  to  do,  and  dangers 
enough,  too.  At  the  end  of  that  time  a  wonderful 
event  happened.  His  old  enemies,  the  Mohawks,  sent 
a  deputation  to  make  a  treaty  of  peace  with  the  French, 
and  with  them  came  the  long  lost  C*^  uture,  the  young 
Frenchman  whose  life  had  been  saved  by  being 
adopted  by  the  Indians,  and  who  now  looked  like  an 
Indian  himself.  This  embassy  of  peace  was  partly 
owing  to  his  influence,  and    partly  to    the  humanity 


THE    PROFESSOR  S    STORY. 


139 


which  had  been  shown  by  the  French  to  two  Iroquois 
prisoners,  brought  to  them  by  their  Huron  friends. 

*'  The  French  were  anxious  to  make  this  treaty  more 
secure,  and  also  to  establish  among  the  Iroquois  a  new 
mission,  to  be  called  The  Mission  of  the  Martyrs. 
Father  Jogues  was  asked  to  be  the  leader  of  the 
French  embassy.  Just  at  first  he  shrank  from  return- 
ing to  those  scenes  of  suffering,  and  the  dangers  he 
knew  so  well.  But  if  the  'flesh  was  weak,'  the  spirit 
was  willing,  and  the  hesitation  was  but  momentary. 
But  he  felt  a  strong  presentiment  of  ill.  He  wrote 
to  a  friend  in  Latin  :  '  Iho  et  non  rediho  ;  '  '  I  shall 
go,  and  shall  not  return.' 

*'  But  he  took  the  precaution  of  following  the  advice 
of  an  Algonquin  convert,  and  wore  a  layman's  doublet 
and  hose,  instead  of  the  long  black  cassock,  a  silent 
preacher  of  a  faith  which,  to  the  Indians,  seemed,  at 
first,  to  destroy  all  that  they  cared  for  in  life. 

"Jogues  had  for  his  companions  a  French  engineer, 
two  Algonquins,  carrying  gifts,  and  four  Mohawk 
guides.  The  little  party  followed  the  route  that 
Jogues  had  such  reason  to  remember,  and  in  re-cross- 
ing Lake  George  he  gave  it  its  first  name  of  Lac  St. 
Sacrament.  On  his  way  he  visited  Fort  George,  and 
met  again  the  Dutch  friends  who  had  so  kindly  be- 
friended him.  Then  he  went  on  to  the  Mohawk  town, 
which  had  been  the  scene  of  his  torture  and  servitude, 
and  appeared  before  his  former  persecutors  in  his  new 


f 


m 


r 


140 


THE    PROFESSOR  S    STORY. 


character,  as  the  plenipotentiary  of  the  great  French 
power  they  were  seeking  to  propitiate. 

"  The  meeting  passed  off  most  harmoniously,  though 
it  was  clear  that  the  Mohawks  still  hated  the  Algon- 
quins  ;  but  Jogues  and  his  companions  were  advised 
to  hasten  home  lest  they  should  meet  any  of  the  four 
still  hostile  '  nations '  of  the  Iroquois.  Jogues,  true 
to  his  unselfish  and  devoted  spirit,  would  not  depart 
until  he  had  visited  all  the  Indian  homes,  confessed 
and  instructed  the  still  surviving  Christian  prisoners, 
and  baptized  dying  Mohawks.  Then  they  crossed  the 
country  to  Lake  George,  where  they  made  bark  canoes 
and  descended  the  Richelieu  in  safety. 

"  One  more  journey  lay  before  brave  Father  Jogues, 
and  then  he  was  to  enter  into  his  rest.  The  Mission 
of  the  Martyrs  was  still  to  be  established ;  and  though 
it  was  at  first  decided  that  Jogues  should  remain  all 
winter  in  Montreal,  he  was  finally  sent  back  to  the 
Mohawks,  with  a  young  French  lay  brother  and  some 
Hurons.  On  the  way  they  met  some  Indians,  who 
gave  them  information  of  a  growing  hostility  among 
the  Mohawks,  which  frightened  their  Mohawks  into 
going  back.  But  Jogues  and  his  young  brother 
pushed  on  in  faith  and  hope,  on  their  labor  of  love. 

"  Brt  alas  !  what  seemingly  slight  and  trivial  things 
often  seem  to  be  the  means  of  thwarting  our  noblest 
designs.  A  harmless  little  bag  which  poor  Jogues  had 
left  in  the  care  of  the  Mohawks  till  his  return,  and 


THE   PROFESSOR  8    STORY. 


141 


which  contained,  as  he  took  care  to  show  them,  only  a 
few  personal  necessaries,  excited  the  suspicions  of 
sorcery,  never  far  from  their  superstitious  minds. 
These  suspicions  were  basely  fostered  for  selfish  ends 
by  the  cowardly  Huron  prisoners,  and  the  prevalence 
of  sickness  and  of  caterpillars  increased  their  supersti- 
tious dread.  The  Bear  clan,  one  of  the  great  Mo- 
hawk clans,  broke  out  violently  against  the  French, 
and  took  the  war  path  in  defiance  of  the  treaty,  to 
which  the  clans  of  the  Wolf  and  the  Tortoise  still 
adhered. 

"  Unhappily,  as  we  say,  Jogues  and  his  companions 
fell  in  with  one  of  their  warrior-bands,  and  were  seized 
and  carried  off  in  triumph  to  the  town  of  the  savages, 
where  the  old  indignities  and  tortures  began  again. 
And  notwithstanding  all  the  protests  of  the  Indians  of 
the  other  clans,  the  death  of  the  missionaries  was  loudly 
demanded. 

"  The  end  was  not  long  delayed.  It  was  the  middle 
of  October,  when  the  forest  was  all  glowing  with  the 
rich  autumn  hues.  The  evening  after  the  prisoners 
had  been  brought  into  the  Mohawk  town,  a  ••  brave  ' 
entered  the  lodge  where  the  bruised  and  lacerated  mis- 
sionaries were  awaiting  their  fate,  and  invited  Jogues 
to  a  feast.  The  father  rose  and  followed  the  Indian 
to  the  lodge  of  the  chief  of  the  Bear  clan.  As  he 
stooped  to  enter,  a  blow  from  the  tomahawk  of  a 
savage  concealed  in  the  entrance  pierced  his  brain  and 


m 


142 


THE    riiOFESSOUS    STORY. 


I 


gave  him  the  martyr's  death  he  had  so  often  looked 
for.  A  friendly  Iroquois,  one  of  the  prisoners  whose 
humane  treatment  by  the  French  had  led  to  the  propo- 
sals for  a  treaty,  Iield  out  his  arm  to  shield  the 
missionary's  head,  but  the  tomahawk  cleft  its  way 
through  it  in  its  descent.  Jogues'  companion  in  a 
few  hours  shared  his  fate,  and  the  barbarians  set  up 
the  heads  of  the  martyrs  as  trophies  on  their  wall  of 
palisades. 

"  So  you  see.  Miss  Marjorie,  that  the  story  of  Isaac 
Jogues  belongs  equally  to  our  country  and  to  yours. 
It  was  New  York  soil  that  was  stained,  and  I  think 
hallowed  by  the  brave  martyr's  blood,  as  it  was  also 
the  scene  of  his  year  of  captivity  among  the  savages. 
And  now,  do  you  think  there  could  be  a  braver  man 
or  a  truer  hero  and  martyr  than  this  simple,  humble, 
unpretending  Isaac  Jogues  ?  " 

"  No,  indeed !  I  had  no  idea  there  were  such 
Jesuits  as  that !  "  exclaimed  Marjorie,  who,  like  the 
others,  had  been  absorbed  in  the  long  and  pathetic 
tale,  told  in  Professor  Duncan's  low,  earnest  tones,  as 
if  he  were  telling  the  story  of  an  intimate  friend  to  a 
single  auditor. 

"  I  think  he  was  the  bravest  man  I  ever  heard  of. 
Just  as  brave  as  Regulus  or  any  of  those  old  fellows 
in  our  Roman  history,"  said  Gerald,  sotto  voce^  to 
Alan. 

"I  think  he  was  braver,  even,"  said  Alan,  "for  he 


THE    PROFESSOR  S    STORY. 


143 


did  it  for  love  to  those  wi'iftched  savages,  and  Kegulus 
did  it  for  the  sake  of  liis  conn  try." 

"*The  love  of  Cin-ist  eonstraineth  ns,' "  said  the 
professor.  "  That  was  the  secret  of  Jognes'  conrage, 
as  it  was  of  St.  PanFs,  a  braver  man  even  than  Jognes, 
for  the  Master  he  served  was  *  despised  and  reje(;ted  ' 
by  the  whole  cultured  world,  when  he  staked  all  to  fol- 
low him.  But  it  was  the  same  sj)irit,  and  one  hardly 
eares  to  make  comparisons  when  the  faith  and  love  are 
the  same." 

Marjorie  felt  as  if  she  had  got  a  good  deal  to  think 
about,  and  she  was  not  sorry  wIilu  Dr.  Ramsay  pro- 
posed some  music  by  way  of  relieving  the  dei)ressing 
effect  of  the  professor's  story.  Marion  o})ened  the 
piano,  and  they  all  sang  together  some  of  their  favorite 
hymns,  with  great  spirit  and  sweetness.  It  was  a  new 
Sunday  pleasure  to  Marjorie.  As  they  sang,  by  Dr. 
Ramsay's  request,  the  beautiful  hymn,  '•  When  1  sur- 
vey the  wondrous  Cross,"  the  tears  came  to  Marjorie's 
eyes  as  she  thought  how  truly  the  story  they  had  just 
heard  had  illustrated  its  spirit.  She  wished  she  herself 
could  only  feel  it  as  fully. 

After  tea  she  went  with  Gerald  to  the  Cathedral. 
As  they  walked,  they  talked  a  little  about  the  story  of 
Jogues,  and  Gerald  seemed  quite  to  drop  the  cynical 
and  sarcastic  manner  he  wore  at  home.  She  could 
not  help  thinking  vaguely  that  he  had  aspirations  for 
something  better  than  the  low  ideal  of  life  that  was 


144 


THE   PROFESSOR  S    STORY. 


presented  to  him  there,  and  that  he  was  dissatisfied 
with  that,  without  having  as  yet  grasped  anything 
better.  He  seemed  honestly  puzzled  to  account  for 
the  tenacity  with  which  the  heroic  missionary  had  pur- 
sued his  mission  to  "  such  a  wretched  lot  of  savages." 
Marjorie  referred  to  the  allegory  of  the  Northern 
Lights,  but  he  said,  "That  was  only  poetry,  and  did 
not  explain  it  at  all !  " 

To  Marjorie's  surprise  and  delight,  the  evening  ser- 
mon was  on  the  text  her  father  had  quoted  in  his 
letter :  "I  am  the  light  of  the  world  ;  he  that  folio  w- 
eth  me  shall  not  walk  in  darkness,  but  shall  have  the 
light  of  life."  It  was  an  earnest  appeal  to  walk  by 
that  true  and  only  Light,  and  it  was  followed  by  her 
father's  favorite  hymn,  exquisitely  rendered : 

"  Lead,  kindly  light,  amid  tb'  encircling  gloom, 

Lead  then  me  on ; 
The  night  is  Jark,  and  I  am  far  from  home, 

Lead  thou  me  ou !  " 


The  tears  rushed  irrepressibly  to  her  eyes  as  the 
soft,  sweet,  pleading  music  carried  her  thoughts  back 
to  her  father's  story  of  the  experience  of  his  own  life ; 
and  her  prayer  went  up  to  the  Light  that  "•  shineth  in 
darkness,"  to  lead  both  of  them  —  far  from  each  other 
and  the  earthly  home  —  as  only  that  Light  can  lead 
any  of  us  through  the  wilderness  of  this  world. 


CHAPTER    VIII. 


A    SNOW-SHOE    TRAMP. 


The  next  few  clays  seemed  full  of  the  stir  of  Christ- 
mas preparations,  both  indoors  and  out.  The  coming 
Christmas  holidays  were  eagerly  expected  by  the  chil- 
dren  as  times  of  unlimited  out-door  fun,  and  nearly 
every  member  of  the  family  had  some  important  secret 
of  his  or  her  own  ;  some  urgent  business  to  be  trans- 
acted in  private,  or  at  most  with  a  single  confidant. 
Marjorie,  as  being  a  sort  of  neutral  party,  was  in 
everybody's  confidence,  and  was  appealed  to  half  a 
dozen  times  a  day  by  Millie,  Jack  and  Norman,  as  to 
which  of  half  a  dozen  possible  gifts  would  be  nicest  for 
each  member  of  the  family,  from  Dr.  Ramsay  down  to 
Effie.  Mrs.  Ramsay,  too,  had  a  number  of  Christmas 
gifts  and  Christmas  surprises  on  hand  for  several  of 
the  poor  families  in  which  she  took  a  motherly  interest, 
and  Marion  and  Marjorie  had  plenty  of  occui)ation  for 
their  mornings,  ni  making  up  various  warm  garments, 
dressing  some  cheap  dolls,  and  prei)aring  candy-bags 
to  be  ready  before  the  more  immediate  Christmas 
preparations  claimed  their  attention. 

145 


1 


•  -vn 


m 


146 


A    SNOW-SHOE   TRAMP. 


H 


I  in 


Mrs.  Ramsay  greatly  approved  of  Ada's  suggestion 
about  the  photograph  of  Marjorie  to  be  taken  for  her 
father.  She  knew  that  no  gift  coukl  possibly  please 
him  as  much,  and  as  thex'e  was  no  time  to  be  lost,  she 
arranged  for  an  early  appointment  for  the  sitting. 
Marion  went  with  Marjorie  to  the  beautiful  studio  of 
the  photographer,  where  Ada  met  them  by  arrangement, 
so  that  she  might  exercise  her  taste  in  suggesting  posi- 
tions which  she  considered  effective.  They  amused 
themselves  while  waiting  for  their  turn,  by  inspecting 
the  winter  photographs  of  all  kinds  and  sizes ;  tobog- 
gan parties,  snow-shoe  clubs  and  skaters  in  masquerade. 
Ada  showed  Marjorie  a  photograph  of  the  last  ice 
palace,  and  the  plan  of  the  one  in  progress,  which 
they  could  now  see  beginning  to  rise  like  a  fairy 
palace  from  its  foundations  on  Dominion  Square. 

At  last  the  photographer  was  ready,  and  the  import- 
ant process  began.  Robin  was  to  be  in  the  picture  — 
Marjorie  had  quite  decided  on  that  —  for  the  photo- 
graph was  to  be  to  her  father  a  real  bit  of  home,  and 
Robin  was  part  of  that.  This  complicated  matters  a 
little,  for  several  of  tlie  fanciful  positions  Ada  had 
suggested  would  not  suit  Robin's  presence  at  all.  At 
last  Marjorie,  tired  of  trying  various  positions,  sub- 
sided into  her  old  favorite  one,  half-curled  up  in  a 
large  easy-chair,  where  Robin  sprang  to  his  place  at 
her  side,  and  the  photographer,  catching  the  happy 
effect   and   the    right   moment,  took  the    photograph 


iig<.a/;iM.:^ttat^^ 


A    SNOW-SHOE    TRAMP. 


147 


before  either  of  the  sitters  realized  that  it  was  being- 
tried.  The  result  was  so  good  that  he  declared  there 
was  no  use  in  trying  again,  as  he  was  not  likely  to  get 
a  better  picture.  Robin  had  not  stirred,  and  Mar- 
jorie's  position  was  excellent,  and  the  picture  would  be 
all  that  could  be  desired. 

Ada  was  rather  disappointed,  but  consoled  herself 
by  persuading  Marjorie  to  try  a  sitting  once  more 
along  with  herself,  both  in  their  out-door  dress,  and  as 
Marjorie  had  worn  her  new  blanket  ulster  and  tiiqiie^ 
which  was  very  becoming  to  her  clear,  pale  com})lex- 
ion,  gray  eyes  and  dark  curling  locks,  the  two  girls 
made  a  pi-etty  contrast.  This  picture  was  to  be  Ada's 
property,  but  she  generously  offered  Marjorie  some 
copies  of  it  for  Christmas  presents.  And  Marjorie 
thought  it  would  be  lovely  to  send  a  copy  of  it  to 
Nettie  Lane  and  Rebecca  —  and  to  Aunt  Millie,  too, 
and  then  her  father  would  see  both. 

As  they  walked  up  Bleury  Street,  Ada  proposed 
that  they  sliould  go  in  to  look  at  the  Jesuits"  Church, 
which  Marjorie,  remembering  the  story  which  had  so 
interested  her,  was  very  willing  to  do.  This  church 
possesses  no  external  beauty,  being  heavy  and  clumsy 
in  appearance ;  but  its  interior  is  gorgeous  with  rich 
tones  of  color,  and  its  ceiling  is  charmingly  painted  in 
frescoes  of  a  soft  tint  of  brown.  Each  compartm.it, 
into  which  the  ceiling  is  divided,  contains  a  separate 
subject,  most  of  them  being  from  the  life  of  Christ. 


!  Ill 


III 


148 


A    SNOW-SHOE   TRAMP. 


Marjorie  was  attracted  at  once  by  the  pathetic  picture 
of  the  Good  Shepherd ;  but  by  and  by  Marion,  who 
had  a  very  appreciative  eye  for  art,  drew  her  attention 
to  a  quaint,  realistic  representation  of  Jesus  as  a  boy, 
employed  in  Joseph's  workshop,  while  his  mother  with 
her  distaff,  was  close  by.  It  was  a  very  unconven- 
tional "  Holy  Family,"  and  it  touched  Marjorie  witli  its 
simple  sweetness ;  the  humble  surroundings,  the  un- 
conscious purity  and  earnestness  of  the  face  of  the  boy, 
occupied  with  the  work  he  had  then  to  do,  yet  with  the 
presage  in  his  eyes  of  other  work  beyond.  It  brought 
back  to  her  mind  the  "  loving  obedience,"  of  which  her 
father  had  spoken.  As  she  was  standing  absorbed  in 
contemplating  it,  she  was  startled  by  hearing  Ada's 
laugh,  and  tones,  only  very  slightly  subdued,  of  gay 
chatter  near  the  door.  She  looked  round,  rather 
startled  at  this  sudden  intrusion  on  the  solemn  quiet 
that  had  reigned  in  the  church,  where  a  few  silent 
worshipers  were  kneeling  in  prayer,  and  where  the 
stillness  seemed  to  breathe  the  spirit  of  worship.  She 
saw  that  Ada's  eldest  brother  had  just  come  in,  and 
with  him  a  young  man  somewhat  older  than  himself, 
whose  appearance  and  expression  distinctly  repelled 
her  at  first  sight.  They  were  talking  to  Ada,  and 
Dick  was  evidently  anxious  to  talk  to  Marion,  too,  but 
she  distinctly  let  him  see  that  she  would  not  talk  ^ 
there. 

The  spell  of  the  beautiful  quiet  church  was  broken 


A    SNOW-SHOE    TRAMP. 


149 


for  Marjorie,  and  she  was  quite  ready  to  go,  and  as 
her  companions  had  been  waiting  for  her,  they  all  left 
the  church. 

"  I  didn't  know  you  were  so  '  high  church,'  Miss 
Ramsay,"  said  Dick,  who  kept  his  place  beside  Marion 
and  Marjorie,  while  his  friend  walked  on  with  Ada, 
who  seemed  to  find  him  most  entertaining,  to  judge  by 
the  frequency  of  her  merry  laugh.  "  I  thought  you 
were  a,  good  Presbyterian,  and  didn't  believe  in  paying 
respect  to  Roman  Catholic  churches." 

"  I  was  brought  up  to  respect  all  churches,  Mr. 
West,"  responded  Marion,  "  not  for  the  sake  of  the 
church  itself,  but  of  its  associations.  And  as  for 
Presbyterians,  if  you  had  ever  learned  the  'Shorter 
Catechism,'  you  would  know  that  we  are  well  taught 
to  respect  everything  connected  with  the  worship  of 
God." 

"  Well,  I  stand  corrected,"  said  Dick.  "But  you 
see  I  didn't  think  you  would  allow  that  that  was 
worship." 

"  I'm  sure  I  saw  true  worshipers  in  there," 
Marion  replied.  "  And  I  think  it's  a  great  shame  for 
Protestants  to  disturb  people  who  are  worshiping  in 
their  own  way,  and  to  think  they  may  behave  just  as 
they  like,  because  it  doesn't  hajipen  to  be  their 
church  !  " 

"That's  just  what  I've  heard  my  father  say  so 
often,"  exclaimed  Marjorie.     "  He  says  he  used  often 


150 


A    SNOW-SHOE    TRAMP. 


!■ 


9W 


to  feel  ashamed  of  the  way  tourists  behave  in  churches 
abroad." 

"  Well,  when  I'm  a  tourist,  as  I  hope  to  be  soon, 
I'll  try  to  be  on  my  good  behavior,"  responded  Dick, 
good-naturedly.  "  But  you  know  it  was  really  Hay- 
ward  there  who  was  the  worst  of  us,  and  you  see  he 
doesn't  believe  in  anything,  except "  —  and  he  laughed 
—  "  well,  yes,  I  do  think  he  believes  in  himself." 

"  Is  he  an  agnostic,  then  ?  "  asked  Marjorie;  with 
great  interest. 

Dick  stared,  then  laughed  a  little.  "  I  beg  your 
pardon,"  he  said.  "But  I  don't  think  Hay  ward's 
anything  so  deep  as  that !  He  just  thinks  it's  no  use 
bothering  about  things  that  nobody  can  ever  under- 
stand, and  he  likes  to  have  a  jolly  good  time  wherever 
he  is.  That's  why  he's  here  this  winter.  He's  Eng- 
lish, you  know,  and  he's  just  traveling  about  to 
amuse  himself.  He's  a  first-rate  fellow,  though, 
awfully  entertaining." 

That  Ada  found  him  so,  there  could  be  no  doubt. 
They  were  evidently  on  most  friendly  terms,  and  the 
coquetry  of  Ada's  manner  was  not  lost  on  Marjorie,  to 
whom  it  was  a  new  development  in  her  friend.  She 
instinctively  disliked  the  idea  of  Ada's  intimacy  with 
a  man  of  Mr.  Hayward's  too  evident  type,  and 
Marion  strongly  shared  her  feeling.  Dick  suggested 
that  they  should  all  continue  their  walk  along  Sher- 
brooke  Street,  to  see  how  the  new  Lansdowne  Slide 


A    SNOW-SHOE   TRAxMP. 


151 


was  progressing;  but  Marion  decidedly  declined,  as 
she  had  a  great  deal  to  do  at  home.  So  Ada  walked 
on  with  the  two  young  men,  while  Marion  and  Mar- 
jorie  hastened  home,  agreeing  as  they  did  so,  that  it 
was  a  great  pity  that  Ada  should  see  so  much  of  her 
brother's  fast  friends. 

"And  I  know  that  young  man  is  a  very  bad  com- 
panion for  poor  Dick,"  added  Marion.  "  He  used  to 
be  quite  a  nice  fellow  —  though  he  was  always  very 
fond  of  pleasure  —  till  he  got  so  intimate  with  young 
men  who  drink  and  gamble  and  all  that.  Because  his 
father's  so  rich,  they  do  all  they  can  to  get  round  him 
and  make  him  like  themselves.  I  fancy  his  mother 
would  be  shocked  if  she  could  have  seen  him  as  my 
father  has  seen  him  — and  brought  him  home,  too,  at 
night  when  he  couldn't  walk  !  " 

"  O,  Marion,  how  dreadful !  "  exclaimed  Marjorie. 
"  But  doesn't  she  know  at  all,  then  ?" 

"  I  fancy  she  must  know  something  about  it ;  but 
she  has  the  idea  that  all  young  men  of  spirit  are  so, 
some  time  or  other,  and  she  thinks  he'll  settle  down 
by  and  by.  I  believe  his  father  is  very  much  put  out 
about  his  extravagance  and  idleness,  for  I  fancy  he 
doesn't  do  much  in  the  office.  But  he  is  so  en- 
grossed with  business  himself,  that  he  has  hardly  time 
to  see  much  of  his  family,  or  even  think  much  about 
them." 

"  Well,  I'm  glad  my  father's  not  like  that,  if  it  was 


152 


A    SNOW-SHOE    TRAMP. 


11  ! 


to  get  all  the  money  In  America  I  "  exclaimed  Mar- 
jorie,  and  Marion  warmly  re-echoed  the  sentiment. 

Wlien  they  reached  the  house,  an  unexpected  mis- 
fortune awaited  them.  From  the  study  came  sounds 
of  pitiful  sobbing,  and  when  the  girls  entered  it  they 
found  little  Effie  sitting  on  the  floor  in  a  tempest  of 
sobs  and  tears,  and  beside  her  the  fragments  of  the 
china  cup  which  Marion  had  been  so  carefully  paint- 
ing for  her  mother,  while  Norman  was  trying  to  con- 
sole the  mourner,  and  endeavoring  to  fit  together  the 
broken  bits. 

"  O,  Effie!  how  did  you  do  it?"  exclaimed  Marlon; 
but  poor  Effie  could  not  speak  for  the  sobs  that  shook 
her  little  frame,  and  Norman  had  the  magnanimity  to 
confess  that  it  was  partly  his  fault ;  that  they  wanted 
tj  get  a  plaything  that  had  been  ])ut  up  on  the  same 
high  shelf,  and  he  had  been  trying  to  hold  Effie  up  to 
get  it,  when,  just  as  she  was  taking  it  down,  it  dis- 
lodged the  cup,  and  then  Effie  herself  had  fallen  and 
bruised  her  forehead. 

It  was  a  great  vexation  for  Marion,  but  she  con- 
quered it  bravely,  and  taking  Effie  up  in  her  arms, 
began  to  examine  the  bump  on  her  brow,  while  Alan, 
who  had  just  come  in  too,  went  to  get  something  to 
bathe  it  with.      But  Effie  only  sobbed  out : 

"  I  don't  mind  the  bump,  Marion ;  it's  the  cup. 
Will  it  mend  ?  " 

"No,  dear,"  said  Marion;  "I  must  just  try  to  get 


A    SNOW-SHOE    TRAMP. 


153 


another  done  yet.  But  you  know  you  and  Norman 
have  often  been  tokl  not  to  try  to  get  things  down  for 
yourselves.  And  if  you  had  been  good,  obedient 
chihlren,  the  cup  woukln't  have  been  broken." 

"  O,  Marion  !  I  won't  ever,  ever  try  again  !  "  she 
exehiimed,  and  Norman,  standing  by  silent  and  rueful, 
looked  as  penitent  as  she  did. 

Marjorie  thought  she  loved  Marion  twice  as  much 
when  she  saw  the  motherly  sweetness  with  which  she 
soothed  the  still  sobbing  child,  telling  her  and  Norman 
that  nothing  was  to  be  said  about  the  cup  to  Mrs. 
Ramsay,  who  was  out,  as  of  course  she  was  to  know 
nothing  about  it  till  Christmas  Day.  And  she  prom- 
ised to  take  five  cents  from  Effie's  and  Norman's  little 
hoard  of  savings,  towards  the  purchase  of  a  new  cup, 
while  Marjorie  heroically  offered  —  confidentially  — 
to  take  Marion's  place  in  helping  Millie  to  dress  a  doll 
intended  for  a  Christmas  gift  to  Efiie,  so  that  Marion 
should  have  more  time  for  her  painting. 

And  finally,  in  order  to  cheer  up  the  two  downcast 
children,  Marjorie  offered  to  do  what  they  had  been 
daily  teasing  her  to  do  ;  go  and  take  a  ride  on  their  little 
toboggan,  down  the  very  moderate-sized  slide  the  chil- 
dren used,  in  a  field  close  by.  So  she  had  her  first 
expei'ience  there,  under  Alan's  supervision,  Norman 
steering,  while  she,  only  a  light  weight,  sat  tucked 
into  the  front,  making  herself  as  small  as  she  could. 
As  we  all  know,  it  is  generally,  as  the  French  say, 


If  ti 


f " 

?,|! 


154 


A    SNOW-SHOE   TRAMP. 


"  le  premier  pas  qui  coute  ;  "  and  now  that  she  had  — 
not  "  broken  the  ice,"  but  —  tried  the  snow-slide,  she 
felt  as  if  she  could  venture  another  on  a  larger  scale, 
with  less  nervousness  and  more  pleasure  than  she  had 
felt  before,  when  looking  at  the  sharp  inclined  planes 
erected  for  the  slippery  descent. 

"  It  looks  a  little  dreadful  at  first,"  Millie  admitted  ; 
"  but  every  time  you  go  down  you  like  it  better.  And 
when  you  know  just  what  the  toboggan's  going  to  do, 
you're  no  more  afraid  of  it  than  of  skating." 

Marjorie  had  learned  to  skate  a  little  at  home  by 
her  father's  desire,  and  her  cousins  were  going  to  take 
her  to  the  rink  by  and  by  ;  but  just  at  present  there 
were  too  many  other  things  to  do,  and  the  skating  was 
not  so  much  of  a  novelty  as  these. 

When  they  got  home,  just  as  the  tints  of  a  soft 
winter  sunset  were  fading  out  of  the  pink  and  amber 
sky,  Norman  ran  to  tell  his  mother,  as  usual,  what 
they  had  been  doing.  "  And  Effie  had  a  fall  and  got 
a  bump,"  he  added  incautiously. 

"  What !  not  off  the  toboggan  ?  "  exclaimed  Mrs. 
Ramsay,  who  was  always  a  little  nervous  about  this 
sport,  though  she  knew  her  husband  liked  the  children 
to  do,  within  reasonably  safe  limits,  whatever  developed 
courage  and  muscle. 

"  O,  no !  it  was  when  the  cup  —  oh,  dear,  I  forgot ! 
That's  a  secret,  you  know,  mamma,  so  you  mustn't  ask 
about  it." 


A    SNOW-SnOK    TRAMP. 


155 


Mrs.  Ramsay  was  quite  accustomed  to  the  little 
ones'  blundering  attempts  to  keep  their  Christmas 
secrets,  and  she  was  very  careful  always  to  respect 
their  innocent  mysteries,  and  to  avoid  tempting  them 
to  untruth  by  unnecessary  questions ;  jind  indeed 
deceit  was  a  thing  almost  unknown  in  that  household ; 
for  all  knew  that  it  was  considered  the  gravest  of 
all  offenses.  So  she  only  smiled  a  little  as  Norman 
went  on : 

"  It's  only  a  secret,  you  know,  because  it's  to  be  a 
surprise  for  you  "  — 

But  Millie  cut  Norman  short :  "  You  stupid  boy ! 
can't  you  be  quiet  ?  It's  nothing  at  all,  mother,  only 
Effie  and  Norman  were  playing  in  the  study,  and  Effie 
fell  and  bumped  her  forehead." 

"  Well,  never  mind,  dear,  let  me  see  the  bump  ;  and 
don't  scold  Norman.  Little  boys  can  only  learn  by 
experience  when  'silence  is  golden.'  And  I'd  rather 
have  him  make  ever  so  many  blunders  by  frankness, 
than  see  him  in  the  least  sly." 

Effie  soon  recovered  from  her  fall,  the  new  cup  was 
bought,  and  everybody  tried  to  help  Marion  to  get 
time  to  finish  it.  Marjorie  detested  dressing  dolls  as 
much  as  Marion  liked  it,  but  she  would  not  let  her 
cousin  touch  the  one  that  she  and  Millie  wrestled  over 
for  three  whole  evenings,  after  Effie  was  gone  to  bed, 
till  "  their  baby  "  became  a  joke  with  everybody.  For 
it  was  not  a  task  that  could  be  "  cobbled  up  "   in  a 


'II 


k  \l 


W, 


156 


A    SNOW-SHOK    Tit  A  Ml'. 


9 


t  {y 


K» 


l\    ) 
Iff)    I 


IV 


I 


hurry.  Elitie  liad  very  decided  views  on  the  subject  of 
dolls,  and  would  scarcely  have  felt  jijrateful,  even  at 
Christmas  time,  for  the  most  beautiful  doll  whose 
clothes  were  sewed  on,  since  the  duty  of  dressing-  and 
undressing  her  doll  was  one  of  its  «^reatest  pleasures 
to  her  motherly  little  heart.  Happily  Marjorie  had  not 
any  Christmas  work  of  her  own  to  do ;  for  her  father, 
who  had,  even  in  the  hurry  of  his  own  departure,  pro- 
cured appropriate  gifts  for  each  member  of  his  sister's 
family,  had  considerately  counseled  Marjorie  to  re- 
serve them  till  Christmas,  knowing  that  she  would 
naturally  like  to  have  her  share  in  the  general  inter- 
change of  gifts,  and  that  she  might  be  puzzled  as  to 
the  selection.  So  she  had  these  safely  stowed  away  in 
her  trunk,  each  in  its  neat  paper  packet,  inscribed  with 
the  name  of  its  owner,  all  ready  for  the  Christmas- 
tree. 

For  they  were  to  have  a  Christmas-tree.  Dr.  Ram- 
say, though  he  often  objected  to  what  he  would  humor- 
ously style  "the  monstrous  regimen  of  children," 
declaring  that  everything  nowadays  was  being  made 
subservient  to  them  and  their  enjoyment,  always  felt 
that  Christmas  was  more  especially  the  "  childrenV 
festival,"  and  endeavored  to  make  it  a  time  of  real 
happiness  to  his  own  family.  And  as  he  knew  that 
one  of  the  truest  means  of  happiness  is  to  help  to  make 
others  happy,  he  tried  to  make  this  an  especial  element 
of  the  Christmas  pleasures. 


A    SNOW-SHOE   TUAMr. 


157 


On  Christmas  Eve,  for  two  or  three  Christmases 
past,  he  liad  given  up  his  surgery  for  the  evening,  to 
the  celebration  of  the  festival  and  of  the  Christmas 
tree.  The  boys  made  a  pilgrimage  to  a  place  on  the 
Laehine  road,  where  they  had  permission  to  select  a 
suitable  young  spruce,  which  was  tastefully  decorated 
with  tapers,  bright-tinted  ornaments  and  bonbons. 
The  childi'en  were  allowed  to  invite  some  of  their 
young  friends,  and  the  doctor  invited  his  young  friends 
—  the  children  of  a  number  of  poor  patients,  who  had 
little  chance  of  Christmas  presents  otherwise,  and  for 
whom  small  inexpensive,  but  welcome  gifts  were  pro- 
vided by  Mrs.  Kamsay  and  Marion.  In  this  way  the 
little  assemblage  soon  grew  to  some  thirty  or  forty 
children.  And  besides  the  Christmas-tree  itself,  Dr. 
Ramsay,  with  the  invaluable  assistance  of  Professor 
Duncan,  always  prepared  a  little  exhibition  for  their 
entertainment.  The  professor  had  a  large  magic  lan- 
tern or  stereopticon  for  which  he  had,  each  year,  some 
new  and  original  dissolving  views  prepared.  This  he 
always  exhibited  for  the  first  time  at  the  Christmas- 
tree,  interpreting  them  as  he  went  along,  with  what 
were  as  good  as  stories  to  the  children.  The  year  be- 
fore he  had  given  them  a  series  of  views  from  Dickens' 
Christmas  Carol,  which  had  been  exceedingly  popular, 
but  ♦^he  subject  was  always  a  secret  from  every  one  but 
Dr  liamsay,  till  the  evening  arrived.  The  little  ex- 
fa      tion  was  frequently  repeated  during  the  winter  for 


xvt 


■*!':' 


(> 


I 


■i 


•  ■ 


158 


A    SNOW-SHOE    TRAMP. 


%i 


!■ 


fti't: 


il 


5       11 
1 


larger  audiences  at  Sunday-school  festivals  and  simi- 
lar celebrations  ;  but  it  never  came  off  with  more  zest 
and  enjoyment  —  both  to  entertainers  and  entertained 
—  than  it  did  at  the  Kamsay's  Ci  ristmas-tree. 

As  soon  as  the  growing  moonlight  made  it  practi- 
cable to  enjoy  going  out  after  tea,  Alan  and  Jack 
insisted  on  giving  Marjorie  her  first  lesson  in  snow- 
shoeing,  when  there  would  be  no  spectators  —  to  speak 
of  —  to  laugh  at  her  first  attempts.  They  had  to  walk 
some  distance  to  reach  a  suitable  open  space  at  the 
eastern  base  of  the  mountain,  and  then  Marion's  snow- 
shoes,  borrowed  for  the  time,  were  carefully  strapped 
to  Marjorie's  moccasined  feet  by  the  long  thongs  of 
buckskin  that  tied  the  network  to  the  fiont  part  of  the 
sole,  by  being  interlaced  across  the  instep.  Marjorie 
was  shown  how  her  toes  were  to  rest  on  the  snow  itself 
through  the  opening  in  the  snow-shoe,  so  as  to  have 
the  necessary  spring  for  walking,  while  she  was  to 
take  as  long  steps  as  possible,  putting  the  foremost 
foot  well  in  advance  of  the  other  and  keeping  the  snow- 
shoes  exactly  parallel  with  each  other  so  as  not  to 
overlap,  or  "interfere,"  as  Alan  preferred  to  call  it. 
As  the  snow-shoes  she  wore  were  very  narrow  ones, 
she  did  not  find  this  very  difficult  after  a  little  practice, 
though  just  at  first  she  got  the  long  narrow  points  be- 
hind interlocked  two  or  three  times,  the  result  being 
a  plunge  into  the  snow,  out  of  which  she  was  pulled 
by  her  cousins,  amid  much  merriment.     After  two  or 


i  I 


A    SNOW-SHOE   TRAMP. 


159 


.       I 


three  lessons,  however,  she  could  walk  quite  easily  and 
lightly  over  the  surface  of  the  deep  snow,  and  Alan 
declared  that  before  long  she  would  be  able  to  run  as 
he  did,  on  her  snow-shoes,  a  feat  which  appeared  to 
her  almost  an  impossible  one. 

Both  the  boys  were  quite  eager  that  Marjorie 
and  Millie  should  accompany  them  on  their  moonlight 
tramp  in  search  of  the  Christmas  spruce,  an  expedition 
in  which  Gerald  was  to  join  them.  But  Mrs.  Ramsay 
thought  an  eight  mile  tramp  quite  too  much  for  Mar- 
jorie in  her  present  state  of  "  training."  The  boys 
were  very  unwilling  to  give  up  the  plan,  however,  and 
Professor  Duncan,  hearing  the  discussion,  declared 
that  he  should  like  tremenilously  to  accompany  them 
part  of  the  way  at  least,  and  suggested  that  the  girls 
should  go  just  as  far  as  they  felt  able  to  manage,  and 
he  would  escort  them  back.  And  so  it  was  accordingly 
arranged.  Professor  Duncan  came  to  tea,  and  shortly 
after  seven  the  little  party  set  out,  carrying  their  snow- 
shoes  till  they  had  got  into  somewhat  open  ground, 
where  the  snow  afforded  them  a  convenient  surface  on 
which  to  use  them. 

It  was  a  gloiious  night.  The  moon,  more  than  half- 
full,  had  the  biilliancy  which  only  a  winter  moon  can 
have  —  shining  from  an  unclouded  sky  over  a  landscape 
of  dazzling  white.  Yet  the  brighter  stars,  at  any  rate, 
were  not  obscured,  but  shone  with  diamond-like  clear- 
ness against  the  deep  gray-blue  sky.     The  shadows  of 


',  ft  J 
i  , 


I 


u:  m 


! 


160 


A    SNOW-SHOE   TRAMP. 


I   1^1      ill: 


m 


J 


It: 


i':i 


! 


the  leafless  boughs  were  defined  on  the  pure  white  snow 
as  clearly  as  if  penciled  on  its  surface,  and  the  feathery 
points  of  the  pines  and  spruces  were  more  distinct  in 
the  silhouette  than  in  the  reality.  The  air  was  keenly 
cold,  but  to  the  snow-shoers  it  was  only  bracing  and  ex- 
hilarating. Marjorie  felt  its  subtle  influence,  and  did 
not  wonder  at  the  high  spirits  of  the  boys,  as  they 
sometimes  ran  races  or  made  little  detours  across 
fences  into  fields,  and  sometimes  dropped  into  line  and 
made  little  jokes  with  Professor  Duncan.  He  was  in 
his  most  genial  mood,  too,  and  entered  with  spirit  into 
the  "  quips  and  cranks  "  of  the  boys,  occasionally  giv- 
ing them  an  original  conundrum  suggested  by  the  im- 
pressions of  the  moment,  and  creating  much  amusement 
when  the  answer  was  either  guessed  or  revealed  — 
generally  the  latter.  By  degrees,  however,  no  one 
knew  how,  the  solemn  beauty  of  the  moonlight  land- 
scape sobered  them  into  a  quieter  mood.  And  in  a 
similar  way,  as  it  often  hai)])ened,  without  any  par- 
ticular intention,  Professor  Duncan  had  got  on  his 
favorite  subject :  the  old  days  of  the  French  pioneers, 
and  incidents  of  the  guerilla  warfare  of  those  days 
which  had  taken  place  in  that  vicinity. 

"  Well,"  said  Gerald,  "I  shouldn't  have  objected  to 
some  of  those  adventures.  The  excitement  must  have 
been  something  to  make  up  for  the  hardship." 

"  And  what  grand  times  they  must  have  had,"  said 
Alan,  ••'  when  they  had  the  country  all  to  themselves, 


A    SNOW-SHOE   TRAMP. 


161 


and  could  go  on  their  snow-shoes  all  over  the  woods, 
with  lots  of  game  everywhere,  and  nothing  to  do  in 
winter  but  shoot  it  and  keep  themselves  warm  I  " 

"  Yes,"  said  the  professor  ;  "  but  it  wasn't  such  a 
fine  thing  to  come  across  an  ambuscade  of  Indians 
with  their  guns  or  tomahawks,  and  know  that  at  any 
moment  you  might  be  scalped  or  carried  off  to  a  fate 
a  thousand  times  worse." 

"  No,"  replied  Gerald.  "  That  was  the  other 
side." 

"  Yes,  my  boy,"  the  proiessor  went  on,  *'  it's  very  nice 
for  us  to  be  enjoying  ourselves  here  tramping  on  light- 
heartedly,  with  a  fine  clear  landscape  all  about  us,  and 
nothing  and  no  one  to  make  us  afraid.  But  it  was 
quite  another  matter  to  have  to  stumble  along  among 
the  shadows  of  the  great  trees  and  fallen  logs,  never 
knowing  when  you  might  hear  the  crack  of  an  arque- 
buse  or  the  heart-chilling  war-whoop,  or  be  picked  off 
without  warning  by  an  invisible  foe !  Why,  do  you 
know,  the  colonists  at  Ville  Marie  were  often  practi- 
cally prisoners  within  their  palisades,  not  daring  to  go 
out  to  shoot  game  or  cut  firewood,  except  in  armed 
parties  as  though  in  an  enemy's  country,  and  then  pur- 
sued back  often  with  heavy  loss.  And  the  men  got 
sick  of  staying  mewed  up  in  their  fortifications,  and 
no  wonder,  though  they  got  a  good  lesson  when  Mais- 
<mneuve  let  them  have  their  way,  and  then  made  such 
a  plucky  retreat." 


1 


i,i- 


\  I    *' 


ifT"— 


P   ■ 


i 


l!i  -pi 


!i 


162 


A   SNOW-SHOE   TRAMP. 


"  Was  that  the  one  Uncle  Norman  told  me  about 
in  the  Place  d'Armes?"  asked  Marjorie. 

"  Yes.  He  was  a  splendid  fellow  —  that  Maison- 
neuve  ;  true  Christian  knight  and  gallant  soldier !  " 

"  Well,  it  beats  me,"  said  Alan,  "  to  understand 
how  those  people  could  give  up  everything  else,  and 
go  on  suffering  all  they  did,  for  such  a  set  of  stupid, 
miserable  savages  as  those  Indians  were  I  " 

"  Ah,  my  boy !  "  the  professor  replied,  "  that's  one 
of  the  lessons  we  can  learn  from  only  one  Master  I 
We  can't  understand  it  till  we  get  some  of  the  spirit 
of  Him  who  came  to  '  seek  and  save  the  lost.'  Did 
you  ever  realize  what  the  first  Christmas  meant  ?  It 
was  the  same  spirit,  caught  from  the  same  source,  that 
sent  Paul  to  '  fight  with  wild  beasts  at  Ephesus ' ;  the 
same  that  has  sent  men  like  fJohn  Williams  and  Cole- 
ridge Patteson  to  give  their  lives  for  murderous  can- 
nibals ;  it  is  just  the  same  spirit  that  is  keeping  our 
brave  Gordon  even  now,  in  what  might  seem  to  us 
little  better  than  a  living  grave.  But  men  can  do 
such  things  only  when  they  intensely  believe  and 
implicitly  obey  — 

'  Theirs  not  to  i    .sou  why, 
Theirs  but  to  do  or  die.'  " 


"It's  strange,"  said  Gerald  thoughtfully. 
"  '  I  can  do  all  things  through  Christ  strengthening 
me '  said  St.  Paul.     And  look  at  his  own  roll  of  heroes 


A    SNOW-SUOE   TRAMP. 


163 


'  of  whom  the  world  was  not  worthy.'  '  By  faith  ' 
they  did  these  noble  deeds.  A  noble  ideal,  a  grand 
cause,  and  a  leader  who  never  fails  us  —  with  these 
three  powers  to  inspire,  men  can  do  anything." 

"  Fiut  the  'grand  cause  '  ?  "  said  Gerald. 

"  To  follow  Him  who  thought  none  too  low  to  care 
for.  'They  that  turn  many  to  righteousness  shall 
shine  as  the  stars  forever  and  ever  ! '  Look,  Marjorie, 
there  are  some  of  your  Northern  Lights."  And  he 
pointed  where  in  the  sky  to  their  right,  some  scintillat- 
ing shafts  of  light  were  quivering  and  reaching  up 
nearly  to  the  zenith. 

"  They  don't  show  so  much  in  the  moonlight,"  he 
said;  "but  they're  there  all  the  same." 

Marjorie's  thoughts  went  straight  off  Southward,  and 
she  wondered  whether  her  father  were  looking  at  that 
same  moon  through  the  boughs  of  the  orange-trees. 

No  one  spoke  for  a  while.  Presently  Millie  re- 
marked, falling  back  a  little  as  she  was  vigorously 
keeping  up  with  Jack  :  "  I  want  to  read  all  about 
those  things  for  myself,  can't  I,  Professor  Duncan  ?  " 

"  You  can  and  you  ought,  my  dear.  It's  a  shame 
they're  not  far  more  read  among  us.  Marjorie,  we 
Canadians  owe  your  Parkman  a  debt  of  gratitude  for 
giving  us  his  graphic  pictures  of  our  early  past.  It 
was  his  volumes  that  first  set  me  on  that  track ;  and 
I've  got  so  enthusiastic  that  I've  been  ever  since  read- 
ing up  everything  I  could  find  on  the  subject,  till  now 


'■a 


ii    >■ 


1  'i 

m 


I 


T"^- 


164 


A   SNOW-SHOE   TRAMP. 


m 


m- 


11 


!1,M 


■;  .:;( 


is    'i 
Sill    /' 


the  life  of  those  old  times  is  almost  as  real  to  me  when 
I  am  walking  about  here,  as  is  the  life  I  see  about  me 
with  my  bodily  eyes. 

"  But  now  I  think  you  two  girls  have  walked  about 
half  as  far  as  you  are  fit  for.     Suppose  we  turn  back." 

This  was  of  course  equivalent  to  a  military  order 
to  turn  "right  about,"  for  the  professor  always  had 
his  way  when  he  made  up  his  mind  ;  so  the  party 
divided  ;  the  three  boys  proceeding  along  the  quiet 
country  road,  and  the  professor  and  the  girls  taking 
their  way  back  to  town. 

"  He's  a  thoughtful  boy,  that  Gerald,"  said  Pro- 
fessor Duncan,  as  if  thinking  aloud.  "  I  hope  he 
won't  be  spoiled  by  the  temptations  of  riches,  like  his 
eldest  brother  and  too  many  of  our  Montreal  boys  ! 
I'm  thankful  many  a  time  that  1  hadn't  a  rich  father. 
It's  something  sad  to  see  a  father  toiling  away  at  mak- 
ing money,  wearing  out  heart  and  life  in  heaping  up  a 
fortune,  just  to  throw  his  family  into  the  embrace  of 
the  demon  of  self-indulgence,  that  I  often  seem  to  see, 
like  a  great  boa-constrictor,  strangling  out  all  that  is 
noble  and  manly  and  self-denying,  and  making  limp, 
soft  pleasure-seekers,  instead  of  men  strong  with  the 
bone  and  sinew  of  noble  manhood.  But  I  don't  de- 
spair of  Gerald,  especially  since  he  has  made  Alan  his 
special  friend,  and  sees  something  better  at  Dr.  Ram- 
say's in  the  way  of  an  ideal  of  life,  than  he  sees  at 
home." 


A    SNOW-SHOE    TRAMP. 


165 


hi 


This  was  so  much  like  her  father's  way  of  talking, 
that  Marjorie  felt  quite  at  home  and  was  glad  to  let 
Professor  Duncan  run  on  in  what  was  evidently  half 
a  soliloquy,  without  any  attempt  to  interpose  any  re- 
marks of  her  own.  Millie,  too.  was  unusually  silent, 
and  perhaps  both  were  getting  a  little  tired,  when  the 
sound  of  sleigh  jells  was  heard  approaching  them. 
As  this  was  of  course  a  common  occurrence  on  that 
frequented  road,  they  did  not  remark  it  particularly, 
till  a  familiar  voice  liailed  them.  Dr.  Kamsay  had 
thoughtfully  driven  to  meet  tlieni  on  coming  in  from 
his  evening  rounds,  suspecting  that  the  girls  would  not 
be  sorry  to  take  off  their  snow-shoes  and  squeeze  them- 
selves into  his  cutter.  Marjorie  was  by  no  means 
unwilling  to  avail  herself  of  the  comfortable  sleigh, 
and  both  were  soon  tucked  in  among  the  warm  robes. 

"  Sorry  I  can't  get  you  in  too,  Duncan,"  said  Dr. 
Ramsay,  laughing. 

"You  know  that  next  to  good  company,  there's 
nothing  I  enjoy  more  than  a  solitary  tramp,  especially 
on  a  glorious  night  like  this.     So  good-night !  " 

And  leaving  the  professor  to  his  own  meditations 
and  the  boys  to  bring  home  their  tree  in  trium})h,  the 
girls  were  soon  safely  at  home,  and  both  so  sleepy  after 
their  long  walk  in  the  frosty  air,  that  they  were  quite 
ready  to  follow  Mrs.  Ramsay's  suggestion,  and  go  off 
to  bed,  to  sleep  soundly  till  morning. 


r  -it 


■i:  I 


iai;  Mi 


CHAPTER  IX. 

SEVEN    SCENES   FROM    CHRISTMAS    PAST. 

Christmas  Eve  came  in  apace,  and  every  one  grew 
busier  still  as  it  drew  nearer.  By  dint  of  great  in- 
dustry Marion  managed  to  get  the  second  cup  finished, 
along  with  all  the  other  things  she  had  on  hand,  before 
the  final  preparations  of  cake  and  pudding  making 
came  on.  Marjorie's  photograph  turned  out  a  very 
good  likeness  indeed,  both  of  herself  and  Robin ;  and 
she  was  in  danger  of  feeling  a  little  more  vanity  than 
she  had  ever  done  before  when  she  saw  the  artistic 
and  carefully  touched  picture  that  had  a  decided  re- 
semblance to  the  portrait  of  her  mother  which  she 
had  always  admired  so  much.  Robin's  photograph, 
too,  was  considered  a  "  speaking  likeness,"  and  the 
packet  was  at  once  put  up  and  addressed  to  Mr. 
Fleming,  just  in  time  to  reach  him,  if  all  went  well, 
by  Christmas  Day. 

The  tree  was  duly  set  up,  and  the  children  found  a 
day's  pleasant  occupation  in  decorating  it  with  all  the 
resources  at  their  command. 

16G 


SEVEN    SCENES    FROM    CUKISTAIAS    TAST. 


167 


Meantime  Dr.  Ramsay's  poor  patients  —  the  Browns 
—  had  not  been  forgotten.  Marion  and  Marjorie,  as 
well  as  Mrs.  Ramsay,  visited  them  frequently,  taking 
little  comforts  as  they  were  needed.  They  met  Miss 
Mostyn  there  one  day,  and  by  her  request  walked 
home  with  her,  and  were  introduced  to  her  orderly 
little  house,  and  to  the  invalid  sister,  even  sweeter  and 
sunnier  than  herself,  Marjorie  thought,  as  she  reclined 
in  her  invalid  chair,  her  Bible  on  a  little  table  by  her 
side,  and  beside  it  a  basket  full  of  knitted  socks,  mit- 
tens and  other  warm  things  that  were  her  own  handi- 
work. She  always  sent  Mrs.  Ramsay  a  donation  for 
her  tree,  and  many  little  hands  and  feet  were  warmly 
clothed  every  winter  by  her  busy  knitting  needles. 
She  was  a  kind,  quiet  counselor,  too,  for  many 
troubled  hearts ;  and  Marjorie  was  so  taken  captive 
by  her  sweet,  tranquil  face,  full  of  the  peace  that 
"  passeth  understanding,"  that  she  gladly  promised  to 
go  to  spend  an  afternoon  with  the  sisters  as  soon  as 
the  Christmas  hurry  should  be  over. 

Gerald  was  told  about  the  needs  of  the  poor  Browns, 
and  not  only  gave  a  liberal  donation  out  of  his  pocket- 
money,  but  talked  to  his  father  about  them,  till  he  got 
from  him  a  crisp,  new  ten-dollar  bill,  which  he  brought 
in  triumph  to  Mrs.  Ramsay. 

"My  father  was  quite  shocked  when  I  told  him  the 
state  they  were  in.  He  isn't  really  stingy  at  all  ; 
but  he's  so  busy  all  the  time  that  he  hasn't   time 


;   1 


lA 


!  !'■  m 


I  r  1 


1G8 


SEVEN   SCENES   FROM   ClllUSTMAS    I'AST. 


IV '^: 


i  |i 


to  think  mueli  about  suuli  things,"  said  Gerald  apolo- 
getically. 

"  Oh !  I  know  that  very  well,"  Mrs.  Kamsay  said 
kindly.  "  And  it's  only  when  we  see  what  misery  is 
that  we  feel  as  if  we  must  do  something  to  relieve  it. 
That's  why  doctors  learn  to  be  so  charitable,"  she 
added,  smiling. 

Christmas  Eve  arrived  at  last.  Gerald  and  Ada, 
who  were  to  be  among  the  guests,  came  early  to  lielp 
in  the  lighting  up,  after  the  boys  liad  seen  that  all  the 
tapers  were  securely  fixed  in  their  places.  They 
helped  Professor  Duncan,  too,  to  get  his  apparatus  in 
place  ;  and  Alan  told  Marjorie  and  Millie  that  he 
knew  what  the  pictures  were  to  be  about  this  time,  as 
he  had  seen  some  of  the  slides ;  but  he  wouldn't  tell 
them  beforeliand  ;  and  indeed  they  were  too  busy  to 
mind.  For  a  small  regiment  of  poor  children,  includ- 
ing two  of  the  little  Browns,  came  very  early,  and  the 
girls  had  enough  to  do  in  removing  the  wrappings 
with  which  the  mothers  had  done  their  best  to  send 
them  out  warm  and  decent  to  "  the  Doctor's  tree." 
Then  thev  had  to  be  amused  in  the  ante- room  till  the 
arrangements  were  complete,  and  a  little  bell  rang  to 
announce  that  all  might  enter. 

It  was  a  very  pretty  sight,  with  its  lighted  tapers 
and  brightly  gleaming  fruits.  The  children  were 
seated  on  little  benches,  to  contemplate  it  at  leisure, 
while  Marion  played  and   sang  some  Christmas  carols, 


SEVEN    SCENES    FROM    CHRISTMAS    PAST.  109 

and  all  joined  who  conld.  Then  Alan  and  Gerald 
handed  down  the  little  gifts  to  Mrs.  Ramsay  and  the 
girls  to  distribute,  Professor  Duncan  looking  approv- 
ingly on,  with  a  kind  word  or  two  to  each  of  the  chil- 
dren. The  family  gifts  were  all  laid  on  a  little  table 
in  a  corner,  covered  with  a  cloth,  and  were  not  to  be 
looked  at  till  afterward  ;  but  there  was  a  bag  or  pack- 
age of  bonbons  for  each  of  the  guests,  rich  or  poor, 
not  forgetting  Professor  Duncan,  who  received  his 
chocolate  creams  with  much  gratitude.  There  was  a 
little  interval  for  the  enjoyment  of  these,  and  the  in- 
spection of  the  mittens  and  comforters  and  dolls, 
which  last  afforded  special  satisfaction  to  some  little 
girls  who  had  never  had  a  new  doll  before.  There 
was  more  music,  and  then  some  of  the  younger  ones 
were  sent  home  in  the  doctor's  sieigli,  made  still  happier 
by  buns  and  cake.  And  then  the  more  formal  enter- 
tainment of  the  evening  began. 

The  lights  were  all  put  out  except  those  which 
illuminated  the  large  white  screen  on  which  the 
pictures  were  to  be  thrown.  When  all  was  ready. 
Professor  Duncan  took  his  stand  in  front  with  his 
long  wand,  while  Alan  acted  as  his  assistant,  and  Dr. 
Ramsay  sat  down  in  front  with  the  rest,  to  enjoy  the 
exhibition. 

"  Now,"  said  Professor  Duncan,  '*•  we  are  going  to 
invoke  the  spirit  of  Christmas  Past,  our  Canadian 
Christmas  past,  and  see  something  of  the  heroism  and 


I 


8   .' 


III 

if  u 


1^  ift 


m 


'>] 


170         SEVEN    8CENP:8    KKOM    CHRISTMAS    PAST. 


';. 


!': 


endurance  which  nursed  Canada  into  being.  And 
first  we  have  Christmas,  1535." 

The  first  scene  looked  like  a  view  of  the  Arctic 
regions.  A  deep  blue  sky  threw  into  bold  relief  a 
landsca})e  of  snow  and  ice.  A  bold,  rocky,  snow-clad 
blutf  rose  abruptly  to  the  left,  while  in  the  distance 
ranges  of  snowy  hills  loomed  as  a  background  behind 
gloomy  forests  of  pine.  A  winding  white  riband  of 
ice  showed  a  river  channel  in  which  lay  three  small 
antique-looking  barks,  witli  masts,  spars  and  cordage 
sheeted  with  ice  and  fringed  with  icicles.  Out  of 
great  snow-drifts  that  half-concealed  the  barks,  rose  the 
top  of  a  rude  fortification  of  palisades  on  the  shore  ; 
and  from  the  port-holes  in  the  ice-encrusted  hulls  (rf 
the  ships,  came  gleams  of  yellow  light,  the  only  token 
of  human  presence  in  all  that  frozen  wilderness.  It 
was  a  picture  of  Nature's  desolation,  yet  relieved  by 
the  signs  of  human  courage  and  energy  and  endurance, 
giving  it  a  new  and  pathetic  interest. 

"  Now,  who  can  tell  what  this  scene  is  ?  "  inquired 
Professor  Duncan. 

"  I  know,"  exclaimed  Millie  eagerly.  "  It's  Jacques 
Cartier's  ships  at  Quebec." 

"  Right,"  said  the  professor.  "  This  picture  is  in- 
tended to  give  you  an  idea  of  the  first  Christmas 
Eve  ever  spent  by  Europeans  in  Canada  ;  unless,  in- 
deed, the  Norsemen  came  here  when  they  were  in 
America  in  the  tenth  century,  but  that  point  is  doubt- 


\% 


■i;  ■¥. 


T«. 


SEVEM    »(JEME8   FUOM   (JlliUbTMAS  rA8T, 


171 


ful.  But,  as  I  hope  you  all  know,  Jacques  Carticr 
reached  Quebec  on  his  second  voyage  up  the  St. 
Lawrence,  on  September,  1535,  and  after  visiting 
Hochelaga,  the  Indian  village  here,  he  made  his  winter 
(juarters  on  the  St.  Charles  at  Quebec,  close  to  the 
village  of  Stadacona.  Well,  most  of  you  know  what 
a  miserable  winter  the  poor  fellows  spent  there,  shut 
up  in  cheir  ice-bound  ships,  and  exposed  to  cold  such 
as  they  had  hardly  dreamed  of  before.  And  then,  you 
know,  to  add  to  their  troubles,  they  were  tortured  by 
that  horrible  disease,  the  scurvy,  which  swelled  their 
limbs  till  they  became  useless,  and  their  throats  and 
mouths  till  they  nearly  choked,  and  their  teeth 
dropped  out.  During  that  dreary  December  it  began, 
and  made  such  havoc  that  twenty-six  died  before  April, 
and  only  three  or  four  healthy  men  were  left  to  attend 
to  the  sick  and  bury  the  dead  in  the  snow-drifts,  the 
only  way  in  which  they  could  bury  them  at  all.  Dur- 
ing that  December,  too,  even  the  Indians  who  had 
been  before  so  friendly,  ceased  to  visit  them,  and  they 
were  left  in  dread  lest  their  friendship  should  have 
turned  to  hostility.  We  can  fancy,  then,  how  sadly 
the  thoughts  of  home  and  Christmas  gatherings  must 
have  haunted  their  minds  and  their  homesick  hearts. 
No  doubt  they  made  such  sorry  attempts  at  Christmas- 
keeping  as  they  could,  and  toasted  King  Francis  and 
'  La  Belle  France.^  After  a  while,  however,  things 
brightened  a  little.    Cartier  learned  from  an  Indian  that 


172 


SEVEN    SCENES    FROM    CHRISTMAS    TAST. 


T'ftM'i 


;Ef' 


I'' 


! 


!i;:-!Ji 


a  certain  kind  of  spruce  contained  a  cure  for  scurvy, 
and  by  the  time  that  spring  came  back  to  loosen 
the  ice-h(,un(l  streams  and  gladden  the  weary  hearts, 
the  survivors  began  to  feel  health  and  hope  returning 
to  their  own  veins.  One  thing  only  T  am  sorry  for 
when  I  think  of  those  brave  men  and  their  hard  win- 
ter: that  such  a  gallant  leader  as  Cartier  should  have 
clouded  his  fair  fame  by  treacherously  carrying  off 
with  him  the  kind  chief  Donnacona  and  some  of  his 
braves,  ti »  tro])hies  to  France.  That  was  the  darkness 
that  mingles  with  the  light  of  his  heroism,  and  it  led 
the  way  to  sub?^ci|uent  failure  and  disaster. 

"  And  now  for  the  second  Christmas.  This  is 
Christmas,  1598." 

The  rjecond  scene  represented  a  moonlight  night ; 
the  sky  flecked  with  wintry  clouds,  through  which  the 
silver  radiance  of  the  moon  showed  a  long,  low,  sandy 
island  sprinkled  with  snow.  On  its  flat  and  treeless 
shores  rolled  the  long,  foaming  surge  of  the  Atlantic. 
In  the  foreground  was  a  gleam  of  frozen  lake  and  a 
group  of  rounded  sandhills,  in  the  shelter  of  which 
stood  an  uncouth,  clumsy  cabin,  built  of  strangely  as- 
sorted timbers,  and  banked  u})  with  bastions  of  snow- 
covered  turf.  There  was  no  cheerful  gleam  of  fire  or 
lampliglit  in  tiiis  picture,  but  a  few  strange  and  shaggy 
figures,  with  long  beards  and  furry  garments,  making 
them  look  very  much  like  bears  erect,  were  scattered 
about  the    foreground  ;   some  watching   the    distance 


■it!, 

u 


.1 


SEVEN    SCENES    FROM    CHRISTMAS    PAST. 


173 


from  a  sand-hill,  others  strolHng-  listless  by  the  shore 
of  the  lake.  It  was  a  weird  picture,  oppressive  in  its 
wildness. 

"  This  is  Sable  Island  in  the  Gulf  of  St.  Lawrence," 
said  the  professor,  "  and  these  were,  so  far  as  we  know, 
its  first  human  inhabitants,  certainly  the  first  European 
ones.  The  aecontl  Viceroy  of  Canada,  and  the  third, 
including  Cartier,  who  tried  to  colonize  it,  brought 
out,  for  this  purpose,  a  shi})load  of  convicts  ;  and  as 
a  precautionary  measure,  he  thought,  as  he  passed 
this  Sable  Island,  that  he  would  land  there  his  ''  Forty 
Thieves,"  and  come  back  for  them  when  h?  had  estab- 
lished himself  safely  on  the  mainland.  The  forty  con- 
victs were  by  no  means  sorry,  at  first,  to  be  left  for  a 
time  where  they  were,  monarchs  of  all  they  surveyed, 
and  could  do  just  as  they  pleased.  Ther*  were  cattle 
on  the  island,  left  there  by  a  French  ])aron  years 
before,  and  there  were  seals  and  svalrus  and  otter 
besides,  so  that  there  was  no  lack  of  food.  There 
were  plenty  of  blueberries,  too,  and  acres  of  cran- 
berries in  the  grassy  valley  th;it  surrounded  the 
shallow  lake  in  the  center.  So,  for  a  time,  they 
enjoyed  their  freedom,  and  were  very  well  content. 

"•  But  the  months  ])assed  away  one  by  one,  and  no 
jleam  of  a  distant  sail  met  their  watching  eyes.  They 
did  not  know  why,  and  began  to  think  they  were 
basely  deserted.  But  the  truth  was,  that  when  De  la 
Roche,    having   chosen   a    site   in   Acadia  —  that  i$ 


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174 


SEVEN    SCENES    FKO.M    CHRISTMAS    PAST. 


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Nova  Scotia  —  was  on  his  way  back  to  pick  up  his 
'  Forty  Thieves,'  a  great  storm  blew  him  across  the 
Atlantic  to  France  instead,  and  there  a  duke.,  who  was 
his  enemy  and  a  rebel  against  his  king,  shut  him  up 
in  prison,  and  kept  him  in  it  for  five  years.  So 
winter  came  on  with  its  heavy  gales  and  bitter  cold, 
and  the  men  had  to  provide  themselves  with  the  best 
shelter  they  could.  They  built  a  cabin  out  of  the 
timbers  of  the  wrecks  on  it,  for  this  island  is  called 
••  the  graveyard  of  the  sea.'  But  soon  they  had  no 
wood  to  light  fires  with,  and  they  had  to  eat  raw  flesh, 
and  after  a  time  learned  to  like  it.  They  replaced 
their  worn-out  clothing  with  the  skins  of  the  creatures 
they  killed,  and  collected  a  great  store  of  furs,  which 
might  be  valuable  some  day.  But  there  was  no  law 
and  order  among  them,  and  every  man  did  what  was 
right  in  his  own  eyes.  So  (juarrels  arose  and  murders 
followed,  and  by  and  by  there  were  only  twelve  left 
out  of  the  forty  ;  men  clothed  in  fox  and  seal-skins, 
with  beards  grow.i  to  their  waists,  and  hair  that  huag 
in  a  matted  tangle  down  their  backs. 

"  At  last  De  la  Roche  found  means  to  let  King 
Henry  know  of  their  desertion,  and  the  king  sent  a 
ship  to  seek  them.  When  tliey  saw  it  outside  their 
shoals,  they  shouted  and  danced  like  madmen  or  wild 
animals.  They  were  taken  back  to  France  with  their 
store  of  furs  which  the  greedy  sailors  at  first  seized  as 
plunder.     But  when  they  were  brought  before  Henry, 


'  'i  U    WSn4; 


SEVEN    SCENES    FROM    CHRISTMAS    PAST. 


175 


M 

m 


in  their  strange  grotesque  garb,  he  found  out  this 
robbery,  and  made  the  pKmderers  restore  their  treas- 
ures. Some  of  them  eventually  went  ba^.^k  to  their 
island  to  spend  the  rest  of  their  lives  as  trappers  in 
that  wilderness.  There  is  no  heroism  to  speak  of  in 
this  story  ;  but  thei-e  -is  a  lesson  in  it,  and  that  is,  that 
men,  to  be  truly  free,  must  be  free  from  bondage  to 
their  own  passions. 

"  And  now,  the  third  scene  is  on  the  coast  of  —  well, 
it  is  so  close  to  the  boundary  between  New  Bruns- 
wick and  Maine,  that  it  is  difficult  to  tell  which  to  call 
it,  but  then  it  was  Acadia.  This  takes  us  to  a  new 
century.      Tt  is  Christmas,  1604." 

The  wild  moonlight  scene  faded  off  the  canvas,  and 
another,  lighted  by  the  last  glow  of  thy  j)ast  sunset, 
took  its  place.  It  represented  a  rock-bound  shore,  just 
wheie  a  brojid  river  flowed  quietly  out  into  a  wide, 
curving  bay.  A  long,  narrow,  snow-clad  island,  which 
divided  this  river  at  its  mouth,  occupied  the  foreground 
of  the  picture.  A  thick  fringe  of  cedars  surrounded 
the  island,  and  at  its  upper  end  was  a  rude  fort  and 
a  little  surrounding  cluster  of  buildings,  rudely  fash- 
ioned of  logs,  and  built  in  the  foi-m  of  a  square.  One 
of  these  was  a  house  of  rather  im])osing  dimensions, 
surmounted  by  an  enormous  roof.  There  were  other 
houses,  storehouses,  barracks,  a  long,  low,  covered  gal- 
lery and  a  great  baking  oven,  as  also  a  small  rude 
chapel,  a  little  apart  on  a  projecting  point  of  rock. 


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SEVEN    SCENES    FROM    CHRISTMAS   PAST. 


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Figures  of  men  in  French  doublet  and  hose  were 
scattered  about  the  vicinity,  some  hauling  up  boats 
filled  with  driftwood,  others  carrying"  casks  of  water 
from  the  boats  to  the  settlement,  which  was  surrounded 
with  the  usual  wall  of  palisades.  Here  and  there 
gleams  o^  firelight  came  from  the  windows  that  the  re- 
ceding daylight  had  left  in  dusky  shadow ;  and  the 
gate  of  the  palisaded  fortification  was  wreathed  with 
cedar  boughs.  Beside  it  stood  a  graceful  athletic  fig- 
ure, in  doublet  and  hose,  api)arently  contemplating  the 
scene,  the  naturally  harsh  outlines  of  which  were  soft- 
ened by  the  rich  tones  of  the  afterglow  of  the  sunset. 
"  This,"  said  Professor  Duncan,  "  is  the  '  Ilahitatlon 
de  St.  Crob\''  the  first  real  settlement  in  Canada,  and 
if  we  except  the  visit  of  the  Norsemen,  the  first  settle- 
ment in  North  America.  The  figure  at  the  gate  is  the 
noble  Samuel  de  Champlain,  true  knight  and  gallant 
soldier,  who  may  truly  be  called  the  founder  and  father 
of  Canada.  He  had  come  out  in  the  preceding  spring, 
with  De  Monts  the  new  viceroy  of  what  was  as  yet 
only  a  wilderness,  and  with  the  Baron  de  Poutrincourt, 
the  first  Acadian  seigneur.  Instead  of  following  Car- 
tier  and  De  la  Roche  up  the  gulf  to  Quebec,  they 
coasted  along  the  Bay  of  Fundy,  and,  proceeding 
southward,  came  upon  this  bay  and  the  island  which 
you  see  at  the  mouth  of  the  river,  called  by  them  the 
St.  Croix.  On  this  bleak,  isolated  spot  they  finally 
resolved  to  begin  their  settlement,  probably  attracted 


ill 


V, 


SEVEN   SCENES   FROM   CUKISTMAP    PAST. 


177 


to  it  by  its  capabilities  for  defense  in  the  face  of  un- 
known dangers.  Here  tliey  built  the  houses  you  see, 
and  Chaniplain,  always  passionately  fond  of  garden- 
ing, tried  to  cultivate  a  garden  in  the  sandy  soil, 
but  in  vain,  for  nothing  would  grow.  There  was 
plenty  of  fish  in  the  sea  and  river,  and  the  islands  in 
the  bay  were  alive  with'  birds.  So  long  as  summer 
lasted  they  got  on  very  we\l.  Tliey  built  a  mill  on 
the  mainland  close  by,  and  sowed  there,  late  in  the 
season  as  it  was,  crops  of  rye  and  barley.  But  when 
the  summer  had  passed  away,  and  the  rich  glow  of 
autumn  had  faded  out  in  the  dreary  gray  of  winter, 
and  the  biting  winds  made  their  way  through  the  crev- 
ices of  their  rude  walls,  chilling  their  blood  and 
benumbing  their  energies,  the  wilderness  life  became  a 
very  different  thing.  They  were  thankful  for  the 
fringe  of  cedars  that  helped  to  screen  them  from  the 
full  force  of  the  eastern  blasts,  but  they  had  to  go  to 
the  mainland,  even  in  the  wildest  weather,  for  fuel  and 
water.  Indians,  too,  came  to  camp  on  the  island,  and 
anxiety  as  to  the  dispositipn  of  these*  uncanny  neigh- 
bors compelled  them  to  be  always  on  the  watch. 
Champlain  was  the  life  and  mainstay  of  the  exposed 
little  colon3^  Nothing  could  daunt  his  courage  or 
permanently  depress  his  hopeful,  cheerful  spirit. 

"  But  a  worse  enemy  than  the  Indians  could  have 
been  stole  in  among  them  witjj  unseen  but  fatal 
approach.     The  same   terrible  disease   which  had  at- 


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178 


SEVEN    SCENES    FJIUM    CHRISTMAS    PAST. 


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tacked  Cartier's  party  now  prostrated  the  colony  at  St. 
Croix.  The  little  graveyard  soon  had  nearly  half  of 
the  band  of  about  fourscore,  for  its  silent  tenants  ;  and 
those  who  recovered  were  sick  with  longing  to  leave 
this  fatal  shore.  Chanij)lain  alone  was  undismayed. 
But  when  the  balmy  aiis  of  spring  returned,  and  the 
snow  and  ice  melted  in  the  warm  sunshine,  and  the 
grass  grew  green  at  their  feet,  the  weary  colonists, 
while  they  sowed  the  island  with  grain  they  were  never 
to  reap,  watched  the  horizon  for  the  returning  sail  of 
Poutrincourt,  who  had  gone  to  France  in  the  autumn. 
At  last,  one  June  morning  they  caught  sight  of  the 
welcome  white  wings  in  the  distance,  and  hailed  with 
delight  the  Breton  merchant  Pontgrave,  with  his 
jDarty  of  new  colonists,  with  whom  they  might  now  go 
to  seek  a  hapjjier  settlement. 

"  And  now/'  he  continued,  '*  we  are  going  to  make  a 
jump  of  two  yeitrs,  and  show  you  a  more  cheerful  Christ- 
mas Eve  in  that  happier  settlement,  Christmas  Eve, 
160G.  You  are  to  suppose  yourself  in  another  rude 
fortification,  of  quadianoul^r  form,  very  umch  after 
the  pattern,  externally,  of  the  one  which  is  now  disap- 
pearing ;  rather  larger,  more  complete,  and  fortified 
with  four  bastions,  mounted  with  cannon.  The  scene 
you  are  to  look  at  now,  is  the  interior  of  the  dining- 
hall  of  the  Baron  de  Poutrincourt,  Seigneur  of  Port 
Royal,  as  this  new  and  flourishing  settlement  in 
Annapolis  Basin,  Nova  Scotia,  was  then  called." 


sill 


SEVEN    SCENES    FKOM    CHRISTMAS   PAST. 


179 


The  outlines  of  the  landscape  faded  away  into  a 
bright  interior  scene,  where  the  mingled  glow  of  blaz- 
ing firelight  and  torches  fell  on  a  merry  company  of 
Frenchmen  assembled  in  a  large,  heavy-raftered  dining- 
hall,  with  walls  and  ceiling  of  dark  wood,  throwing 
out  into  relief  the  faces  and  figures  of  the  party. 
Conspicuous  in  the  group  was  the  noble  bearing  and 
expressive  face  of  the  figure  they  had  seen  at  the  gate- 
way in  the  preceding  scene ;  the  figure  of  the  daunt- 
less Champlain.  He  was  here  under  a  new  aspect, 
however.  With  a  gaily-decorated  collar  surrounding 
his  shoulders,  and  a  long  white  napkin  hanging  down 
the  front  of  his  doublet,  he  was  advancing  at  the  head 
of  a  procession  of  fifteen  French  gentlemen,  each 
bearing  a  smoking  dish.  That  carried  by  Champlain 
was  a  boar's  head,  profusely  decorated  with  cedar 
sprigs.  Below  the  fifteen  empty  places  at  the  long 
dining-table  sat  an  aged  Indian  chief,  with  strongly 
marked  features  and  a  long,  snowy  beard,  Jind  with 
him  several  minor  chiefs,  their  heads  adorned  with 
eagles'  feathers,  who  were  watching  with  eager  inter- 
est the  bearers  of  the  smoking  and  savory  viands. 
Around  the  great  wide-throated  fireplace,  in  which  huge 
logs  of  wood  were  blazing  merrily,  sat  a  motley  group 
of  dusky  warriors,  squaws  and  children,  wntching,  too, 
the  advent  of  the  feast,  with  hungry  eagerness  on  their 
dark  faces.  A  few  dogs  crouched  beside  them,  all 
evidently  deeply  interested  in  the  feast  about  to  begin. 


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SEVEN    SCENES    FROM    CHUISTMAS    PAST. 


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''Now,"  said  the  professor,  "this  is  Poutrincourt's 
(lining-hall  at  Port  Royal,  in  the  days  of  the  knightly 
order    there    instituted    by    Chaniplain,    and    called 
'  //' Ordre  de  Bon   Temps'     You  know  you  children 
sometimes  talk  about  having  '  a  good  time ' ;  perhaps 
this  is  where  the  expression  came  from.     When  the 
colonists  were  happily  settled  in  the  beautiful  harbor 
of  Port  Royal,  begirt  with  fair  wooded  hills  and  flash- 
ing waterfalls,    Champlain,  in   order  to    beguile    the 
tedium  of  the  long  winter,  organized   this    Ordre  de 
Bon  Tempi^^  composed  of  fifteen  knights.     Each  took 
in  turn  the  place  of  Grand  Master,  or  Steward,  signi- 
fied by  the  decorated  collar  which  he  retained  for  one 
day,  and  resigned  in  the  evening,  with  great  pomp  and 
ceremony,  to  his  successor.     His  duty  was  to  superin- 
tend and  provide  for  the  meals  of  the  day,  seeing  not 
only  to  stocking  the  larder,  but  to  cooking  the  viands. 
And  a  goodly  supply  of  viands  the}'  managed  to  get, 
between  their  stored  previsions  and  dried  fruits  from 
France,  and  the  game  and  fish  that  abounded  in  the 
surrounding  country,      \enison,  moose  meat,  the  flesh 
of  the    beaver,  otter,  bear,  wild  cat,  and    hare,  wild 
geese,  ducks,  grouse,  and  plover,  trout  and  sturgeon  and 
other  fish,  caught  at  sea,  or  through  the  ice  of  a  neigh- 
boring   river,   made  a   variety  from  which  tliey  were 
expected  to  have  a  new  bill  of  fare  every  day.     They 
often  invited  to  their  table  some  of  the  Indian   chiefs, 
in    particular    their    trusty    old    friend,    the    famous 


SEVEN    SCENES    FROM    CHRISTMAS    PAST. 


181 


Micmac  chief.  Membertou,  tlit'  aged,  bearded  man  yoii 
see  heie  ;  and  a  beard,  yon  know,  is  as  uneonnnon  on 
an  Indian  as  on  a  priest.  Membertou  became  a  pro- 
fessed Christian,  nnder  the  teachings  of  the  Jesnits, 
when  they  came  later ;  and  was  always  a  true  and 
stanch  friend  to  the  French.  The  history  of  this 
settlement  of  Port  Royal,  with  its  vicissitudes  of  pros- 
perity and  misfo't'jue,  and  its  tragic  ending,  is  one  of 
the  most  fascin;jting  episodes  of  colonial  history;  but 
T  must  not  dwell  longer  on  it  now.  In  the  next  scene 
we  follow  the  fortunes  of  Champlain,  who  soon  after 
had  to  leave  Port  Royal,  abandoned  for  a  time,  to 
the  rock  of  Quebec,  where,  you  know,  under  his  an- 
spices,  two  years  later  began  the  permanent  settlement 
of  Canada. 

"  And  so  we  come  to  Christmas  Eve,  1608."' 
This  scene  was  again  a  moonlight  one.  In  its  clear 
luster,  the  great  precipitous  cliff  of  Cape  Diamond 
stood  out  clearly  against  the  dark  blue  sky,  towering 
above  the  strip  of  beach  below,  along  which  ran  a 
straggling  row  of  wooden  buildings.  The  most  prom- 
inent was  what  looked  like  a  cluster  of  three  log- 
houses,  two-storied,  crowded  close  together  with  an 
added  "  block  house,"  or  rude  fortress,  surmounted  bv 
a  square  tower  with  })oint('d  roof  —  apparently  a  dove- 
cote, though  available  for  more  warlike  purposes,  the 
whole  surrounded  by  a  \\A\  of  palisades,  round  which, 
again,   ran    a  moat,  while   cannon  were  mounted  on 


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182 


SEVEN    SCENES    FROM    CHRISTMAS    PAST. 


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platforms  commanding  the  river.  Along  the  shore 
boats  were  drawn  uj),  some  of  them  evidently  Indian 
canoes.  Through  the  narrow-paned  casements  glowed 
warm  firelight  contrasting  with  tlie  cold  luster  of  the 
moonli 'ht  and  the  dead  whiteness  of  the  snow  which 
was  piled  in  drifts  along  the  shore,  and  covered  the 
frozen  river  and  the  distant  hills  that  showed  spectral 
in  the  distance.  At  the  open  doorway  was  visible 
again  the  figure  of  Champlain,  who  seemed  to  be  en- 
gaged in  conversation  with  a  group  of  long-haired 
Indians  in  shaggy  robes  of  fur. 

"  I  don't  think  this  picture  requires  much  explana- 
tion," said  the  professor.  "  You  all  know  how  Cham- 
plain,  seized  with  admiration  for  the  commanding 
aspect  of  Cape  Diamond,  founded  Quebec  there  in 
1608.  He  and  his  men  felled  the  great  trees  that 
grew  along  the  shore  and  built  the  '  iTahitatlon  de 
Chainplain.,''  which  you  see  there  and  of  which  we  have 
the  outlines  preserved  by  his  own  pencil.  And  there 
he,  too,  with  his  men  went  through  the  stern  experience 
of  a  Quebec  winter,  more  bitter  by  far  than  that  of 
St.  Croix  or  Port  Royal.  Here,  too,  he  was  compara- 
tively alone  ;  for  his  mercantile  companion,  Pontgrave, 
had  sailed  for  France  in  Sejitember,  and  Champlain 
was  left  with  his  axe-men  and  artisans.  There  was 
no  Ordre  de  Bon  Temps  this  winter,  no  gay  and 
clever  Marc  Lescarbot,  no  courtly  Poutrincourt  with 
whom  to  while  away  in  talk  and  pleasant  reminiscence 


EJ^. 


SPA'LN    SCENKS    FROM    CIIHIST.MA8    PAST. 


183 


the  long  winter  evenings.  If  the  Order  of  the  Good 
Time  hud  existed,  its  steward  woidd  have  been  sorely 
put  to  it  to  produce  any  ereditahle  dinners,  for  here 
there  was  little  game  at  hand,  and  even  the  Indians, 
who  depended  on  their  hunting,  were  often  almost 
famished.  These  poor  wandering  Montjignais  laid  in 
for  their  winter  stores  a  large  supply  of  smoked  eels, 
which  they  left  in  the  keeping  of  Champlain  till  they 
wanted  them.  When  all  else  failed,  they  would  come 
to  the  Habitation  to  reclaim  them.  One  picture  gives, 
you  see,  a  group  of  these  Indians  who  have  come  to 
Champlain  i)robably  to  get  some  of  their  eels ;  and  I 
fancy  that  he,  always  benignant  and  devout,  would  sup- 
plement this  with  some  more  generous  Christmas  fare 
from  his  own  stores.  And  though  they,  poor  creatures, 
understood  nothing  about  Christmas  and  its  sacred 
meanings,  yet  the  gospel  of  human  kindness  practically 
preached,  was  something  they  could  understand.  They 
were  very  much  like  children,  and  in  Champlain 
they  always  found  a  fatherly  friend.  When  panic- 
stricken  by  vivid  dreams  of  the  fierce  Iroquois  raids, 
they  would  come  in  a  body  and  beg  shelter  within 
Champlain's  fort ;  and  he  would  at  least  admit  the 
squaws  and  the  children,  while  the  men  kept  watch 
through  the  darkness  without.  At  one  time,  when  the 
ice  in  the  river  was  drifting  loosely  about,  a  band  of 
starving  Indians  tried  to  cross  in  their  canoes  to  beg 
for  food.     But  the  frail  canoes  were  soon  ground  to 


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184 


SEVEN    SCENES    FROM    CHRISTMAS   PAST. 


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bits  by  the  floating  cakes  of  ice,  to  which  the  Indians, 
squaws,  chiltb'f^n  arcl  all,  had  to  take  at  last  and  cross 
on  this  precarious  raft,  which  was  driven  to  shore  be- 
fore the  moving  masses  behind.  The  poor  emaciated 
creatures,  reduced  almost  to  skeletons,  excited  Cham- 
plain's  deepest  compassion,  especially  when  he  saw 
them,  after  finishing  all  that  the  French  could  give 
them,  seize  and  devour  the  carcass  of  a  dog  that  had 
been  lying  for  months  on  the  snow. 

"  Besides  the  visits  of  these  Indians  and  his  writing 
and  drawing,  Champlain  had  little  to  break  the 
monotony  of  tiie  dreary  winter  life.  Trapping  foxes 
and  watching  the  attempts  of  the  hungry  martens  to 
reach  a  dead  'log  hanging  from  a  tree,  seem  to  have 
been  the  only  amusements  within  his  reach,  and  they 
were  rather  beneath  the  dignity  of  Champlain  —  and 
beneath  his  humanity,  too,  I  think !  But  even  men 
like  him  are  hardly  ever  quite  beyond  the  spirit  of 
their  times."  Professor  Duncan  stopped  for  a  mo- 
ment. Then  as  if  a  thought  had  just  struck  him  and 
demanded  expression,  he  went  on  : 

"  Only  One  of  all  the  sons  of  men  ever  stood  out  in 
the  bold  relief  of  his  own  pure  individuality  from 
that  web  of  surrounding  influences  which  people  now 
call  '  Environment,'  and  that  was  He  whose  birth  we 
are  commemorating  to-night.  All  other  lights  not 
only  shine  *  in  the  darkness,'  but  have  their  light 
mingled  with  the  surrounding  darkness. 


n 


SEVEN    SCENES    FROM    CHRISTMAS    PAST. 


185 


"  And  now  we  are  goings  to  make  a  leap  of  more 
than  a  quarter  of  a  century,  and  visit  Quebec  again 
on  Christmas  Eve,  1G35.  And  this  scene  will  be  a 
sorrowful  one." 

The  picture  faded  out,  but  as  it  did  so  the  outlines 
seemed  to  revive  for  a  few  moments,  and  a  change 
came  over  the  details.  The  old  Ifahitation  gave  place 
to  a  straggling  village  of  cabins  and  huts.  Ships  were 
anchored  in  the  stream,  and  on  the  ascending  ridge 
above  the  village  where  now  is  seen  a  spacious  terrace, 
there  stood  a  wooden  fort  and  church  with  distinct 
guns  and  other  fortifications,  which  Professor  Duncan 
pointed  out  as  the  old  Castle  of  St.  Louis.  Above, 
the  stern  old  cliff  still  rose  in  the  primitive  simplicity 
of  nature,  uncrowned  as  yet  with  its  martial  tiara. 

But  soon  the  outlines  of  this  picture  faded  altogether 
and  were  replaced  by  another  interior  jiicture.  It 
showed  a  bare  and  by  no  means  s]>acious  chand)er  —  a 
chamber  in  the  fort  of  St.  Louis.  On  the  wall  hung 
two  or  three  pictures,  one  of  them  a  portrait  of  the 
murdered  King  Ilenry  the  Fourth  of  Fi  ance,  the  victim 
of  Ravaillac.  Another  represented  a  fair  and  grace- 
ful young  lady  with  much  sweetness  of  expression,  in 
an  almost  conventual  dress.  A  tliird  was  a  ])icture  of 
the  Madonna  and  Child,  by  an  early  French  or  Flem- 
ish artist ;  while  a  large  carved  crucifix  hung  opposite 
the  plain  camp  bedstead.  On  this  lay  the  prostrate 
figure  of  a  dying  man  surrounded  by  a  group  of  figures 


IV 


m 


186 


8EVEN   SCENES    FROM    CHRISTMAS   PAST. 


with  sorrow  in  tlieir  faces  and  their  attitudes.  A  tall, 
athletic  man  in  the  long  black  cassock,  and  with  the 
looped-up  hat  of  a  Jesuit,  stood  close  beside  the  head 
of  the  sufferer,  evidently  reading  the  service  for  the 
dying.  Officers  in  the  French  uniform  stood  around 
the  couch.  It  was  obviously  the  moment  of  watching 
for  the  last  breath  of  the  ebbing  life,  or  shall  we  not 
rather  say,  for  the  i)assing  forevermore  out  of  death 
into  life.  The  effect  of  the  picture,  with  the  subdued 
light  falling  softly  on  the  mournful  figures  and  bowed 
heads  and  pale,  unconscious  form,  was  very  solemniz- 
ing. Professor  Duncan  allowed  his  audience  to  look 
at  it  for  a  few  moments  before  he  began,  in  a  low  and 
earnest  tone,  his  explanatory  remarks : 

"  Well,  I  don't  think  I  need  say  very  much  about 
this  picture.  It  dates  just  a  century  after  the  first 
scene.  With  Christmas  Eve,  1635,  closed  the  earthly 
life  of  brave  Champlain,  who  for  nearly  thirty  yearti 
had  been  successively  the  explorer,  the  colonizer,  the 
father  of  New  France,  as  Canada  was  then  called, 
lie  had  begun  by  taking  possession  of  it  for  his  master, 
the  brave  King  Henry,  and  he  went  on  for  the  sake 
of  old  France  and  New  France,  too,  and  with  the 
nobler  desire,  growing  stronger  and  stronger,  to  win 
this  vast  country  as  the  possession  of  a  greater  Master 
still.  In  the  twenty-seven  years  that  intervened  be- 
tween this  Christmas  Eve  and  the  last,  he  had  crossed 
and  recrossed  the  ocean  many  times,  and  had  seen 


SEVEN    SCENES    FROM    CHUISTMAS   PAST. 


187 


many  changes  in  the  great  wiklerness  around  him. 
New  France  had  grown  from  one  or  two  little  settle- 
ments in  the  wilderness,  into  a  colony.  Quebec  had 
grown  into  a  village  of  nearly  two  hundred  inhabitants, 
and  its  Fort  St.  Louis  sheltered  a  garrison  ;  while  there 
were  tradiug-})osts  at  Tadousac,  Three  Rivers  and  the 
Lachine  Rapids.  Champlain  had  already  pointed  out 
the  site  of  Montreal.  He  had  laid  great  plans,  in 
pursuance  of  which  he  had  made  long  journeys,  and 
had,  unhappily,  embarked  in  Indian  wars.  lie  had 
stood  a  siege  at  Quebec  with  his  little  garrison,  had  been 
forced  to  capitulate  to  the  English,  but  had  eventually 
received  back,  for  France,  the  post  he  had  founded  and 
cherished  with  so  much  care  and  toil.  He  had  brought 
out  his  fair  young  wife,  Hclene  de  Champlain,  the 
original  of  that  portrait ;  but  she,  never  probably 
having  really  loved  the  husband  provided  for  her  in 
childhood,  soon  grew  tired  of  the  exile,  even  with  the 
adoration  of  the  Indians,  and  finally  went  back  to 
France  to  take  up  the  life  of  a  7'cllr/lcusr,  long  her 
especial  desire.  But  Champlain  was  devoted  to  his 
life  work,  and  was  faithful  to  it  to  the  last.  And  now 
he  was  quietly  passing  away,  watclied  over  by  the  com- 
rades and  ecclesiastics  with  whom  ho  had  worked,  half- 
soldier,  half-missionary,  and  lia])pily  unconscious  that 
the  English  colony  already  growing  u])  on  the  eastern 
coast  of  the  continent,  re-enforced  by  the  Dutch  traders 
of  Manhattan,  was  eventually  to  wrest  from  France  the 


m 
II 

I 


m 


188 


SEVEN    SCENES    FRO>I    CHRISTMAS   PAST. 


rich  possessions  he  had  devoted  his  life  to  secure  to 
her  sway.  And  yet,  tliough  nominally  the  property  of 
another  power,  French  Canada,  remaining  French  in 
character,  in  language,  in  traditions,  is  even  to-day 
a  monument  to  the  dauntless  courage  and  energy  of 
the  noble  Champlain. 

"And  now,"  added  Professor  Duncan,  "ycu  have 
all  been  very  quiet  through  this  long  lecture,  and  I 
am  getting  tired  as  well  as  you.  You  know  /hen 
I  get  started  on  this  subject,  I  never  know  when  to 
stop.  But  we  have  only  one  scene  now  to  look  at, 
and  about  that  I  must  not  stop  to  tell  you  much,  or 
you  will  all  be  going  to  sleep.  I  will  just  show  it  to 
you  and  tell  you  what  it  is.  And  then  those  of  you 
who  want  to  hear  the  story  that  belongs  to  it,  can  ask 
me  for  it  at  another  time. 

"  Now  for  tlie  seventh  and  last  Christmas  Eve  from 
the  Past." 

The  sorrowful  deathbed  scene  faded  away,  and  in 
its  stead  rose  the  great  trunks  and  branches  of  a  wintry 
forest.  Through  the  leafless  boughs  an  orange  sunset 
could  be  seen,  the  light  of  which  still  rested  here  and 
there  on  the  trees  and  snow.  A  party  of  Indians, 
principally  women  and  children,  were  busy  setting  up 
the  poles  of  a  wigwam,  and  covering  them  with  sheets 
of  birch  bark.  Some  of  the  men  were  visible  in  the 
distance,  with  bows  and  arrows,  and  in  tlie  foreground, 
helping  in  the  work  of  preparing  the  wigwam,  stood 


SEVEN    SCENES   FROM   CHRISTMAS   PAST. 


189 


the  same  black-frocked  figure  who  had  stood  in  the 
last  scene  by  tlie  bed  of  the  dying  leader.  He  seemed 
to  be  carrying  a  large  bundle  of  fagots  for  the  fire  to 
be  lighted  in  the  center  of  the  wigwam.  It  was  a 
strange,  savage  picture,  the  shaggy  skins  in  which  most 
of  the  Indians  were  attired,  and  their  uncovered  heads, 
giving  a  peculiarly  wild  aspect  to  the  forest  see.  <e; 
while  the  ecclesiastical  dress  of  the  Jesuit  made  a  curi- 
ous contrast  with  the  surroundings  of  the  primitive 
wilderness. 

"  The  other  scenes  I  showed  you,"  said  Professor 
Duncan,  "  have  all  been  connected  with  tha  discovery 
and  colonizing  of  our  country ;  but,  heroic  as  these 
memories  are, '  they  should  have,  on  Christmas  Eve 
especially,  only  a  secondary  place  in  our  hearts.  This 
picture  is  one  of  pure  Christian  self-sacrifice,  endeavor- 
ing, in  the  spirit  of  its  Master,  to  carry  the  light  of 
life  into  the  very  midst  of  the  uncomprehending 
darkness. 

"You  remember,  some  of  you  at  least,  that  I  have 
told  you  of  the  intense  zeal  and  devotion  with  which 
the  Jesuits,  and  noble  ladies  and  laymen  too,  under- 
took the  work  of  converting  the  Indians.  Pere  Le 
Jeune,  the  Jesuit  you  see  here,  was  one  of  the  first 
of  these  noble  and  devoted  men,  who,  whatever  mis- 
takes they  made,  certainly  made  none  in  believing  that 
their  Master's  presence  would  be  '  with  them  alway  ' 
in  this  labor  of  loving  obedience.     He  and  some  of 


'xn 


iti: 


Mi 


ih.U 


190 


SEVEN    SCENES    FROM    CHRISTMAS   PAST. 


his  brethren  built  a  little  log  cabin  on  the  bank  of 
the  St.  Charles,  near  where  Cartier  first  moored  his 
ships,  which  they  called  *  Notre  Dame  des  Anges.^ 
Here  they  tried  to  labor  among  the  wandering  bands 
of  Indians  who  came  their  way,  and  gladly  taught  all 
the  children  they  could  collect.  But  P^re  Le  Jeune 
felt  that  he  got  on  very  slowly  in  this  way,  even  in  the 
preliminary  work  of  learning  the  language.  And  so 
he  bethought  himself  of  going  to  live  for  a  time  among 
them,  as  one  of  themselves,  in  order  to  gain  a  hearing 
for  the  good  tidings  he  had  to  tell  them.  He  accepted 
the  invitation  of  a  party  of  Algonquins  to  spend  the 
winter  with  them,  wandering  about  the  frozen  wilder- 
ness in  the  search  for  the  game  which  formed  their 
only  subsistence.  What  this  meant  for  poor  Pere 
Le  Jeune,  what  suffering  from  cold,  hunger,  smoky 
wigwams,  and  the  low  savagery  of  his  companions, 
you  can  scarcely  realize  unless  you  read  his  own 
graphic  and  simple  account  of  them  in  the  '  delations 
des  Jesuitcs.^  If  any  of  you  care  to  hear  the  story 
of  this  particular  Christmas,  which  he  gives  there  in 
full  detail,  I  can  give  it  to  you  on  Sunday  evening. 
But  here  is  the  scene  of  that  Christmas  Eve,  as  he 
himself  has  described  it ;  the  encampment  in  the  even- 
ing, after  the  long  day's  tramp  through  the  snow, 
and  little  indeed  to  hope  for  in  the  way  of  Christmas 
cheer !  They  had  started  without  breakfast,  and  all 
that  their  hunters  could  find  for  supper  for  the  party 


SEVEN    SCENES    FROM    CHRISTMAS    PAST. 


191 


of  twenty  was  —  a  hare  and  a  small  porcupine.  *  It 
wasn't  much  for  so  many  of  us,'  niiklly  remarks 
the  good  Father,  '  but  the  holy  Virgin  and  her  husband 
Joseph  were  not  so  well  treated  on  Christmas  Eve,  in 
the  stable  of  Bethlehem.' 

"  And  there  we  must  li3ave  Pfere  Le  Jeune  for  the 
present.  As  I  have  said,  I  can  tell  you  the  whole 
story  of  his  Christmas  at  another  time,  and  a  very 
touching  story  it  is !  And  now,  I  think,  Marjorie," 
paid  the  professor,  turning  to  look  at  her  intently 
listening  face,  "  that,  leaving  out  of  course  the  wholly 
dark  picture  of  the  '  Forty  Thieves '  on  Sable  Island, 
we  might  call  these  scenes  of  heroic  endurance  or 
heroic  effort  from  our  Canadian  Christmas  Past,  a  little 
cluster  of  Northern  Liglits  shining  amid  the  Northern 
darkness." 

Marjorie  smiled  back  at  Professor  Duncan,  partly 
with  pleasure  at  the  thought  itself,  partly  at  the 
memories  that  the  thought  calh'd  u\). 

Dr.  Ramsay  rose,  as  he  said,  to  '•  move  a  vote  of 
thanks,"  not  as  a  mere  form,  but  from  his  veiy  heart. 
"  I  venture  to  say,"  said  he,  "  tliat  there  isn't  one  here 
who  will  not  hereafter  remember  something  of  when, 
where  and  how  our  Canadian  history  began.  Why 
don't  people  make  a  greater  effort  to  bring  our  modem 
improvements  more  fully  into  the  service  of  education  ? 
The  stage  shouldn't  monoj)olize  all  that  the  age  can  do 
to  instruct  the  mind.      And  teaching  needn't   always 


1^1 


192 


SEVEN    SCENES    FltOM    CHRISTMAS    PAST. 


go  on  just  in  the  old  ruts  of  dry  recitations  and  mere 
mental  cram!  But  \vc  all  thank  you  most  heartily, 
Duncan,  for  all  the  trouble  you  have  taken,  and  1  hope 
these  most  interesting  views  will  please  and  instruct 
many  another  audience." 

Gerald  took  the  hint  from  a  sign  of  Dr.  Ramsay's, 
and  rose  to  say  that  he  had  much  pleasure  in  seconding 
the  motion ;  and  the  vote  of  thanks  was  passed  accord- 
ingly, with  great  unanimity  and  much  applause. 

Then  the  children  from  without  had  all  to  be  bundled 
up  and  sent  home,  some  of  those  who  lived  farthest 
off,  in  the  doctor's  sleigh.  Gerald  and  Ada  went  too ; 
and  only  when  all  were  gone  but  Professor  Dunc^an, 
did  the  Kamsay  family  begin  to  look  at  their  own 
Christmas  presents.  It  is  scarcely  necessary  to  say 
that  this  part  of  the  progrannne  gave  general  satisfac- 
tion, though  perhaps,  as  is  usually  the  case,  the  presents 
given  were  even  more  enjoyed  than  the  presents  re- 
ceived. One  of  the  things  that  gave  most  pleasure 
all  round,  was  the  acceptable  gift  provided  for  Dr. 
Ramsay  by  tlw  mother  and  children  —  a  new  medical 
book  that  he  wanted,  and  which  they  had  all  sub- 
scribed to  buy.  Mrs.  Ramsay's  fur-lined  cloak  —  also 
^  joint  stock  present  —  was  no  less  enjoyed  by  every 
body.  Professor  Duncan  was  not  forgotten,  either, 
but  rejoiced  in  the  possession  of  a  new  book  of  Folk- 
lore. And  the  gifts  from  New  York  were  much 
appreciated  by  all  the  recipients. 


SEVEN    SCENES    FKOM   ClIltlSTMAS    PAST.         11)3 


As  for  Marjorie,  she  found  herself  tha  possessor  of 
an  ex(!ellent  pair  of  snow-shoes,  and  dainty  Indian 
moeeasins  to  wear  with  tlieni ;  besides  other  little  pres- 
ents from  eaeli  of  her  eousins,  down  to  a  Christmas 
card  from  Norman  and  a  sugar  cat  from  Effie,  self- 
denyingly  saved  for  the  purpose  of  presentation.  But 
the  most  precious  gift  of  all  was,  by  what  she  thought 
a  curious  coincidence,  of  which  her  aunt  might  have 
given  some  exi)lanation,  an  admirable  photograph  of 
her  dear  father,  on  the  back  of  which  was  written 
below  his  signature,  the  text  she  already  loved  so  well : 
"  He  that  followeth  Me  shall  not  walk  in  darkness,  but 
shall  have  the  light  of  life." 

And  so  this  long  expected  Christmas  Eve  also 
banished  into  Christmas  Past,  to  the  regret  of  all, 
even  Effie,  though  her  eyes  were  almost  closing  with 
weariness.  But  she  declared  she  would  rather  "stay 
up  and  be  tired,  than  be  sorry  afterwards  that  she  had 
not  staid  up."  And  her  only  regret  was  — that  inevi- 
table one  about  most  of  our  pleasant  things  here  below, 
—  that  "  it  was  so  soon  over." 


I     SI 


m 


CHAPTER  X. 


1' 


CHRISTMAS    PRESENT. 

Christmas  Day  was  a  bright  pleasant  day,  not 
very  cold,  tlie  sleighing-  excellent,  and  the  streets  full 
of  people,  driving  or  afoot,  enjoying  their  holiday. 
Marjorie  and  Marion  went  to  the  Cathedral  service  in 
the  morning,  where  they  met  Ada,  her  mother  and 
Gerald,  the  only  occupants  of  the  Wests'  pew.  Mar- 
jorie enjoyed  the  beautiful  service  very  much,  and  also 
the  earnest  and  appropriate  Christmas  sermon  that 
followed,  in  the  true  spirit  of  Christmas  keeping.  She 
involuntarily  glanced  at  Mrs.  West  and  Ada  once  or 
twice,  to  see  how  tliey  took  the  preacher's  exhortation 
to  keep  the  feast  in  the  spirit  of  love  to  others,  as  the 
fitting  commemoration  of  the  infinite  love  of  God  to 
men.  But  neither  Mrs.  West  nov  Ada  seemed  in  the 
least  impressed  by  it.  The  mother  was  wrapped  up 
in  the  complacent  self-gratulation  of  her  luxurious 
surroundings,  which  seemed  to  her  the  chief  good  in 
life,  as  much  as  she  was  wrapped  up  from  the  cold 
in  her  rich  velvets  and  furs.     And  Ada,  poor  child, 

19i 


CHKI8TMAH    I'KESENT. 


195 


had  never  been  taught  to  Iwok  on  going  to  church 
as  anything  else  than  a  desirable  form  —  a  duty 
which  ought  to  be  attended  to,  and  never  thought 
of  listening  while  there,  for  anything  that  could 
enter  as  an  influence  into  her  daily  life.  Gerald  only 
seemed  to  be  really  listening,  and  once  or  twice 
his  eyes  met  Marjorie's  significantly,  as  some  of  the 
preacher's  words  recalled  Professor  Duncan's  little 
homilies. 

Ada  wished  the  two  cousins  to  come  home  with  her 
to  luncheon,  but  Marion  would  not  leave  her  brothers 
and  sisters  on  Christmas  Day,  and  Marjorie  j)referred 
to  accompany  Marion.  They  walked  on  together, 
however,  as  far  as  they  could,  Mrs.  West  driving 
home  alone,  as  both  Gerald  and  Ada  i)referred  to 
walk.  Ada  had  a  great  deal  to  tell  them  about  her 
presents  —  bracelets,  books,  trinkets,  and,  most  deliglit- 
ful  of  all,  the  pretty  little  Swiss  watch  which  she 
exhibited  to  Marjorie  with  great  pride  and  satisfaction, 
and  which  excited  in  Marjorie  just  a  little  i)angof  envy. 
A  watch  was  a  thing  she  had  so  often  wanted  to  have. 
But  then  she  remembered  that  her  father  had  once 
told  her  that  by  and  by,  when  she  was  old  enough  to  be 
trusted  with  it,  she  .'•hould  have  the  precious  watch  her 
mother  had  once  worn,  and  that  would  be  ever  so 
much  better  than  any  new  watch  I 

But  Ada  had  something  besides  her  own  presents  to 
think  of.     She  drew  Marjorie  apart  as  they  walked 


196 


CHRISTMAS    PRESENT. 


;i:: 


on,  and  put  into  her  hand  a  little  square  paper  packet 
neatly  done  up  and  sealed  at  the  ends. 

"  There's  a  little  Christmas  box  from  me,  Marjorie  ! 
You  must  wear  it  for  my  sake,  and  keep  it  to  remem- 
ber your  Montreal  Christmas  by." 

Marjorie  was  greatly  surprised.  She  had  never 
thought  of  Ada's  giving  her  a  Christmas  gift,  and  wus 
inclined  to  feel  vexed  that  she  had  none  to  offer  her. 
But  she  thanked  her  warmly  for  the  little  unknown 
present  which  she  put  into  her  pocket  till  she  should 
get  home.  As  they  walked  on  together,  they  encoun- 
tered Di(;k  West  and  Mr.  Hayward  strolling  up  from 
a  tour  of  the  French  churches,  where  they  had  been 
looking  at  the  gay  Christmas  decorations.  As  before, 
Mr.  Hayward  speedily  monopolized  Ada,  who  was  very 
willing  to  be  monopolized,  and  Dick  West  seemed  no 
less  willing  to  walk  by  Marion's  side,  while  Gerald 
and  Marjorie  broughl  up  the  rear. 

"  You  ought  to  go  down  to  see  Notre  Dame  Ca- 
tliedral,  this  afternoon,"  said  Gerald.  "  You  haven't 
been  in  it  yet,  and  the  Christmas  decorations  are  always 
very  elaborate ;  they  have  a  representation  of  the 
manger,  you  know." 

"  Have  they  ?  "  said  Marjorie. 

"Yes.       Won't  you  go  down  with    Alan  and   me 
this  afternoon  ?     1   know  Ada  will  like  to  come,  too. 
You  know  you've  got  to  sec  the  church  some  time." 
.    Marjorie  thought  that  if  it  was  anything  like  the 


IB 


CHRISTMAS    I'KESKNT. 


197 


Jesuits'  cIiiiitIi,  slio  should  like  to  see  it  very  much,  so 
the  little  exp«Mlitiou  was  iii^reed  on  before  they  jnirted. 
When  sh(^  and  Marion  got  home,  she  found  anotlier 
Christmas  pleasure  awaiting-  her ;  a  letter  from  her 
father  and  another  from  Nettie  Lane,  giving  her  all 
the  news  from  home  and  full  of  kind  messages  from 
her  old  teaeher  and  all  her  sehool  friends,  with  Christ- 
mas cards  from  several  of  them,  and,  not  least  accept- 
able, from  Rebecca,  "  with  love  and  best  wishes  for 
Miss  Marjorie."  Her  father's  letter  gave  her  a  de- 
lightful account  of  all  he  was  seeing  and  enjoying  in 
her  Aunt  Millie's  Southern  honu',  where  his  descriptions 
of  the  warm  sunsliine  and  the  flowers  were  such  a  con- 
trast to  her  Northern  expeiiences.  Best  of  all,  his 
health  had  already  inn)roved  so  nuicli  under  the  in- 
fluence of  the  warm  climate  and  the  rest  and  change, 
that  he  declared  Marjorie  would  hardly  know  him  if  she 
saw  him  now,  for  he  was  really  getting  fat.  There 
were  a  few  bright  lines  from  her  Aunt  Millie,  too, 
with  messages  for  everybody  at  Dr.  Kamsay's,  and  a 
double  portion  for  Mrs.  Ramsay,  who  had  a  note  from 
Mr.  Fleming  also.  It  was  only  when  these  letters  had 
been  read  and  re-read  that  Marjorie  remembered  Ada's 
little  packet  and  opened  it.  What  was  her  surprise  to 
find  in  a  neat  little  box,  a  beautiful  gold  locket  with 
her  initials  engraved  on  the  back.  It  was  very  kind 
in  Ada  to  think  of  it,  Marjorie  felt,  and  she  had  never 
<lreamed  of  her  doing  so.      But  though  Ada  was  gen- 


11 


■yit 


ri 


198 


CHRISTMAS    PRESENT. 


erous  enough  when  she  was  fond  of  any  one,  and 
though  the  presentation  had  given  her  no  little  pleasure, 
the  idea  had  been  Gerald's  and  he  had  volunteered  a 
contribution  towards  the  purchase  as  well  as  superin- 
tended the  engraving  of  the  initials,  but  under  strict 
injunctions  that  his  share  in  the  gift  was  to  be  a  secret. 

Gerald  and  Ada  called  for  Marjorie,  according  to 
arrangement,  and  Alan  was  delighted  to  go,  too. 
Near  the  church  they  met  Professor  Duncan,  who 
undertook  to  act  as  cicerone  on  Marjorie's  account. 

"  You  see,  you've  got  to  know  all  about  our  Mont- 
real antiquities,"  he  said  good-humoredly ;  "  and  I 
know  these  youngsters  don't  know  half  of  what  they 
ought  to  know  about  them,  so  I'll  take  pity  on  your 


Ignorance. 


As  they  entered  the  great  church  —  said  to  be  the 
largest  in  North  America  —  Marjorie  could  not  but 
gaze  in  astonished  admiration  at  the  long  vista  of 
stately  nave  with  its  lofty  Gothic  arches,  the  rich 
coloring  tliat  outlined  the  gallery,  the  white  and  gold 
that  alternated  with  deep  tones  of  crimson  and  blue, 
the  richly  carved  pulpit,  the  gorgeous  altars,  the  cruci- 
fixes and  the  large  imposing  paintings  that  attracted 
the  eye.  But  after  the  first  sensation  of  magnificence 
was  past,  she  felt  that  what  Marion  said  was  true,  and 
this  church,  with  all  its  grandeur,  wanted  the  harmoni- 
ous beauty  that  had  impressed  her  in  the  church  of 
the  Jesuits. 


CHRISTMAS    PRESENT. 


199 


After  they  had  looked  at  all  the  objects  of  interest, 
and  the  representations  of  the  Nativity,  the  professor 
began  to  give  them  his  historical  reminders. 

"  You  know,  Marjorie,  that  not  far  from  here  is  the 
spot  where  Maisonneuve,  with  his  friends  and  Ma- 
dame de  la  Peltrie,  about  whom  you  must  hear  some 
other  time,  first  founded  Ville  Marie.  The  place  was 
called  Pointe  a  CaUilre^  and  their  first  place  of 
worship  was  a  little  chapel  of  bark  which  was  after- 
wards rebuilt  in  wood.  But  as  Ville  Marie  grew 
larger,  the  church  grew  too  small ;  and  first  Maison- 
neuve founded  another  church  on  St.  Paul  Street. 
Finally,  about  forty  years  after  Champlain's  death, 
they  built  a  much  larger  one  here,  and  this  is  its  suc- 
cessor ;  not  much  more  than  half  a  century  old.  So, 
with  all  'cs  size  and  beauty,  it  isn't  so  interesting  to  me 
as  some  much  smaller  and  plainer  churches.  But  we 
may  as  well  go  up  to  the  top  of  the  tower  and  have  a 
view  of  the  city  from  it." 

They  clambered  up  the  long  winding  stair,  and  at 
last  stood  on  the  loft}'  platform,  with  the  city  spread 
at  their  feet  in  the  afternoon  suni.hine,  the  mass  of 
walls  and  roofs  strongly  revealed  against  the  white 
ground,  while  on  one  side  rose  the  snow-clad,  pine- 
crested  "  mountain,"  and  on  the  other  stretched  the  wide, 
winding  white  sheet  of  river,  studded  with  masts  and 
hulls  and  flanked  by  the  distant  snowy  mountains  that 
stood  out  in  dazzling  purity  against  the  clear  azure  sky. 


1:1 


IM 


200 


CHRISTMAS    PRESENT. 


"  There  !  isn't  that  a  glorious  panorama  ?  "  exclaimed 
the  professor,  when  they  had  taken  breath. 

"But  O,  Marjorie  !  "  said  Ada,  "it  doesn't  begin 
to  be  so  beautiful  as  it  is  in  summer !  You  mustn't 
go  up  to  the  top  of  the  mountain  till  it  is  quite  spring, 
and  then  you  will  see  how  lovely  it  is.  It's  prettier 
than  any  of  the  views  I  saw  last  summer  when  I  was 
away." 

But  it  was  pretty  cold  up  there,  and  though  Mar- 
jorie was  delighted  with  the  view  and  much  interested 
in  picking  out  all  the  streets  and  buildings  she  had 
already  learned  to  know,  they  did  not  prolong  their 
stay  on  their  airy  perch.  As  they  descended,  vespers 
were  beginning  and  they  waited  a  little  to  enjoy  the 
rich  deep  strains  of  the  organ  and  the  chanting  of  the 
choristers. 

To  Marjorie,  the  music  seemed  heavenly,  and  she 
was  divided  between  the  desire  to  stay  to  hear  more 
and  the  strangeness  of  being  a  spectator  in  a  church 
instead  of  joining  in  the  service.  They  left  the 
church  very  quietly,  and  as  they  came  out  on  the 
Place  d'Armes,  Professor  Duncan  told  Marjorie  that 
the  great  bell,  called  the  "Gros  Bourdon  " — only  rung 
at  certain  times  —  is  one  of  the  five  heaviest  bells  in 
the  world.  The  charming  chime  of  eleven  bells  she 
had  already  heard  rei)eatedly,  for  it  is  one  of  the 
"features  "  of  Montreal  Sundays  and  holidays,  and  is 
considered  the  finest  on  the  American  continent. 


CHRISTMAS    PRESENT. 


201 


And  now  Professor  Duncan  proposed  that  they 
should  junii3  on  one  of  the  street  cars  and  go  as  far 
down  as  the  okl  Bonsecours  Church,  since  they  were 
on  a  sightseeing  expedition.  They  were  soon  at  the 
Bonsecours  market,  and  in  front  of  the  alley  leading  to 
the  old-fashioned  little  church  standing  on  the  old  St. 
Paul  Street  —  the  street  of  Ville  Marie.  Then  they 
walked  up  to  the  modern  front  of  the  ancient  church 
with  the  quaint  inscription  over  the  arched  doorway, 
which  none  of  the  younger  members  of  the  party  found 
their  French  quite  equal  to  deciphering.  It  runs  as 
follows : 

"  Si  L' Amour  de  Marie 
En  passant  Ne  T'  hnhlie, 
Si  ton  ca"nr  est  Grave 
De  Lni  Dire  nn  Ave." 


Professor  Duncan  told  them  that  it  meant  that  the 
passer-by  was  not  to  forget  the  love  of  Mary,  but  was 
to  say  an  Ave  to  the  Lady  of  Gracious  Help. 

They  passed  into  the  solemn,  quiet-toned  church,  a 
complete  contrast  to  the  one  they  had  left.  The  dark 
walls,  relieved  by  tablets  containing  appropriate  texts, 
beautiful  frescoes  of  the  ceiling,  the  odd,  conical 
pulpit  —  all  gave  the  impression  of  quaintness  and 
antiquity  and  solemn  repose.  A  tablet  on  the  wall 
near  the  main  entrance  coinmemor«ates  in  French  the 
name  of  "  Paul  Chomedey  de  Maisonneuve,  founder  of 


202 


CHRISTMAS    PRESENT. 


Montreal,  and  donor  of  the  site  of  this  church."  The 
name,  the  spirit  of  the  place,  and  the  sailors'  votive 
offerings  on  the  walls,  seemed  to  carry  the  mind  back 
to  those  old  heroic  days  of  the  troubles  and  the  glories 
of  New  France,  about  which  they  had  all  been  hearing 
so  much  from  Professor  Duncan. 

"What  a  pity,"  he  remarked,  "that  those  tablets 
are  in  Latin,  instead  of  being  in  French,  the  tongue 
'  understanded  of  the  people  '  here !  Now,  boys,  here's 
a  chance  for  showing  what  you  can  do  in  translating 
some  of  these  texts  for  us." 

Gerald  and  Alan  simultaneously  translated  the  text : 
"  Christ  washed  us  from  our  sins  in  his  own  blood," 
while  Marjorie,  who  was  nearest  to  another  one,  half- 
shyly  read,  "  We  have  redemption  through  His 
blood." 

"  Well  done,  Marjorie,"  said  the  professor,  "  I 
didn't  know  you  were  a  Latin  scholar  I  " 

"  Oh !  that's  very  easy  ;  I  only  know  a  little  Latin. 
My  father  wished  me  to  learn  it." 

"  That's  right ;  I  wish  more  girls  did." 

They  went  round  to  the  back  of  the  old  church  and 
looked  at  the  weather-beaten  stones  that  had  stood  so 
many  years,  and  been  consecrated  by  so  many  prayers, 
weighted  with  the  burden  of  many  a  troubled,  sorrow- 
laden  heart,  for  is  not  human  nature  the  same  in  all 
ages  and  under  all  outward  forms  ?  And  then,  having 
done  due  honor  to  the  old  church  which  had  seen  a 


• 


CHRISTMAS    PRESENT. 


203 


young  country  grow  up  around  it,  they  turned  their 
steps  homeward. 

When  Marjorie  and  Alan,  with  Professor  Duncan, 
reached  Dr.  Ramsay's  dooi,  they  found  Mrs.  Ramsay 
just  setting  out  in  the  doctor's  sleigh  to  go  down  with 
some  little  comforts  for  the  Browns. 

"  Here,  Marjorie,"  said  her  aunt,  smiling,  "  I  think 
you  would  like  to  go  with  me.  Alan  can  drive  us,  and 
then  your  uncle  can  stay  at  home  to  rest  and  talk  to 
Professor  Duncan,  as  I'm  sure  he  will  be  glad  to  do, 
for  he  has  been  out  most  of  the  day.  You  see  doctors 
can't  have  a  holiday  even  on  Christmas  Day !  " 

Marjorie  willingly  squeezed  in  beside  her  aunt,  and 
Alan,  perched  half  on  the  side  of  the  cutter,  soon 
drove  them  down  to  the  narrow  street  where  the  Browns 
lived,  and  then  drove  on  to  leave  a  parcel  for  some 
other  poor  patient,  while  Mrs.  Ramsay  and  Marjorie 
went  in. 

It  was  a  m'^ch  brighter  scene,  already,  than  on 
Marjorie's  first  visit.  The  mother  was  able  to  be 
about,  and  the  table  was  comfortably  laid  for  the 
evening  meal.  The  father  was  sitting  up  in  bed,  sup- 
ported by  pillows,  watching  with  an  expression  of 
affectionate  pleasure,  the  baby  laid  beside  him,  gently 
cooing  to  itself.  The  other  children  were  amusing 
themselves  happily  with  the  toys  they  had  received 
the  evening  before ;  the  boys  with  a  little  Noah's 
Ark,  the  girl  putting  her  doll  to  sleep,  as  she  had 


11; 


5, 


204 


CHRISTMAS   PRESENT. 


seen  her  mother  hush  the  baby.  The  poor  man 
smiled  grat(*fully  as  Mrs.  liamsay  wished  him  a 
happy  Christmas. 

"  Indeed,  mem,  it's  been  that,  an'  I  never  would  ha' 
thought  I  could  have  been  so  content  lyin'  here.  But 
you  an'  the  doctor's  been  that  good  to  us,  I'm  sure 
we've  much  reason  to  thank  the  Lord  for  his  mercies. 
You  see  I've  got  my  doll  liere,"  he  added.  "  I  was 
tellin'  Jenny  there  I  wouldn't  give  it  for  hers,  that 
she's  hardly  had  out  o'  her  hands  since  she  came  back 
last  night,  so  full  of  the  Christmas-tree  an'  all  the 
things  she  saw,  that  she  could  hardly  stop  talkin'  about 
them,  even  in  her  sV^ep." 

The  poor  man  was  evidently  glad  to  get  an  oppor- 
tunity of  pouring  out  the  pent-up  gratitude  he  had 
been  feeling  all  day ;  and  his  wife,  though  '  quieter, 
seemed  no  less  cheered  and  strengthened  by  the  kind- 
ness and  symi)athy  that  had  been  shown  to  them.  It 
was  a  pleasant  little  bit  of  Christmas  brightness,  even 
for  Mrs.  Ramsay  and  Marjorie,  to  see  how  much 
Christian  love  had  gladdened  that  poor  home  and  its 
inmates. 

The  rest  of  the  Christmas  day  passed  swiftly  and 
pleasantly  enough  for  Marjorie.  When  she  and  Mrs. 
Ramsay  drove  home  in  the  gathering  dusk,  it  was  a 
picture  of  Christmas  comfort  to  see  the  family  group 
in  the  drawing-room  gathered  about  the  bright  coal 
fire.     They  had  dinner  late  —  an  unusual  luxury ;  for 


CHRISTMAS   PRESENT. 


205 


Dr.  Ramsay  thought  an  early  dinner  best  for  his  chil- 
dren, whom  he  liked  to  have  about  him  when  he  was 
at  home.  Besides  Professor  Duncan,  there  were  one 
or  two  young-  men,  away  from  home,  and  one  lonely 
school  friend  of  Marion's ;  for  both  Dr.  and  Mrs. 
Ramsay  liked  to  gather  the  homeless  about  them  at 
Christmas  time. 

Before  dinner  there  was  both  merry  and  sober  talk, 
and  a  little  music.  After  dinner,  which  was  a  plain, 
good,  substantial  Christmas  dinner  —  including,  of 
course,  an  orthodox  pudding,  brought  in  blazing  with 
the  traditional  blue  flame,  to  the  unbounded  delight  of 
Norman  and  Effie  —  there  was  more  music  and  a  merry 
round  game.  And  then  the  professor  was  asked  by 
Dr.  Ramsay  to  give  them  a  reading  of  Dickens'  Christ- 
mas Carol.  This,  as  it  happened,  Marjorie  had  never 
read,  and  it  was  a  rare  treat,  not  to  be  forgotten,  to 
hear  its  humor  and  its  pathos  both  so  sympathetically 
rendered,  as  Professor  Duncan  gave  it  to  them. 

He  did  not  of  course  read  the  whole,  but  his  selections 
gave  them  at  least  the  cream  of  that  most  charming  of 
Christmas  stories.  Jack  and  Millie  went  into  fits  of 
laughter  over  the  Cratchits'  Christmas  dinner,  and 
especially  over  the  "  two  young  Cratchits,"  who,  every 
one  said,  exactly  corresponded  to  themselves.  Tiny 
Tim  —  well,  who  that  ever  hears  or  reads  the  story 
does  not  love  Tiny  Tim,  and  pray  that  he  might  live  ? 
It  seemed  as  if  the  little  family  picture  Marjorie  had 


1  1 


■Hi         »    I 


i    'i\ 


II 


206 


CHKI8TMA8    PRESENT. 


seen  that  afternoon  made  her  more  able  to  enter  into 
the  spirit  of  the  "  Carol."  And  when  Professor  Duncan 
ended  with  the  concluding  words,  "  And  so,  as  Tiny 
Tim  observed,  God  bless  us  —  every  one  !  "  it  seemed 
to  her  a  most  appropriate  ending  for  a  wonderfully 
happy  Christmas  Day. 


CHAPTER  XL 


:.'i 


PERE    LE   JEUNE8   CHRISTMAS. 


When  Professor  Duncan  arrived  at  Dr.  Ramsay's 
on  Sunday  afternoon,  he  found  an  expectant  little 
audience  awaiting-  him  there.  Gerald  had  specially 
requested  that  the  professor  should  not  be  asked  to 
tell  the  story  until  Sunday,  in  ovCx^v  that  lie  might  be 
there  to  hear  it ;  and  Ada,  who  was  always  glad  to 
avail  herself  of  any  o})portunity  of  being  with  Mar- 
jorie,  had  willingly  accepted  the  invitation  to  come  to 
hear  it,  too.  Millie  was  delighted  at  the  prospect  of 
a  "  quite  new  "  story,  and  Norman  and  Effie  were  re- 
joicing in  the  hope  of  bears  and  other  wild  beasts 
being  in  a  story  that  was  "  all  out  in  the  woods."  So 
the  professor  did  not  get  any  peace  to  talk,  even  about 
General  Gordon  and  the  slow  progress  of  that  relief 
expedition,  on  which  the  eyes  of  the  civilized  world 
were  just  then  earnestly  fixed ;  so  many  reminders  did 
he  get  about  the  tale  he  had  promised  to  tell. 

"  Well,"  he  said,  "  my  heart  seems  full  of  Gordon, 
and  I  think  a  good  many  of  our  hearts  are  heavy 

207 


I ;  i 


■ 


208 


PEKE    LE   .TEUNE  8    CHRISTMAS. 


enough  about  him  just  now  !  But  it  oughtn't  to  be  a 
long  stop  from  (ioitlon  to  Pere  Le  »Ieune ;  for  the 
cauHe  was  tlio  same,  and  tlu;  two  men  were  actuated  by 
the  same  spirit:  the  spirit  that  makes  East  and  West, 
Frenehman  and  Englishman,  I'rotestant  and  Jesuit 
one  in  serving  the  same  Master  ami  doing  his  work  I  " 

"Yes,  indeed,"  said  Dr.  Kamsay  ;  ''-the  hmger  I  live 
the  more  1  am  persuaded  that  that  is  the  only  center 
of  unity,  the  only  true  uniting  force." 

'•"  But  we  nuistn't  keep  these  young  folks  waiting 
for  the  story.  1  know,  when  I  was  their  age,  I  wasn't 
so  fond  of  morals  as  1  am  now,  and  it's  rather  hard  to 
have  it  put  at  the  very  beginning  instead  of  coming 
orthodoxically  at  the  end,"  said  the  professor,  with  a 
smile  at  the  expectant  faces  about  him.  And  then  he 
stretched  himself  out  in  his  easy-chair,  with  one  arm 
about  Effie,  who  had  perched  herself  on  the  side  of  it, 
and  began  his  story,  looking  into  the  fire  in  a  dreamy 
way,  as  if  he  were  looking  at  the  shadows  of  the  things 
he  had  to  tell. 

"  I  told  you  then,"  he  went  on,  "  how  this  Pere  Le 
Jeune  and  the  brethren  who  were  with  him,  had  estab- 
lished themselves  at  their  rude  little  mission-house  of 
Notre  Dame  des  Anges,  where  in  winter  the  intense 
cold  so  penetrated  the  crevices  of  their  log-built  walls, 
that  even  the  great  blazing  fires  they  kept  up  in  their 
wide  fireplaces  would  not  keep  their  ink  from  freezing 
unless  it  was  kept  close  to  the  fire !     It  was  well  for 


rEUE    LE   JEUNE  8    CIIKI8TMA8, 


209 


I 


Pt-re  Le  Jeune  that  he  had  this  preparatory  tiaiiiin;;' 
for  his  next  winter. 

"  Jle  and  his  comrades  were  working  away,  trying 
to  get  some  knowh'dge  of  tlie  Indian  hmgnage  from  a 
ras(5ally  Indian  wiio  had  been  taken  over  to  France, 
where  he  had  been  baptized  and  liad  got  a  little  sur- 
face scratching  of  Christian  instruction,  with  probably 
a  good  deal  more  inoculation  of  civilized  vices  —  an 
awful  misnomer  that,  by  the  way !  This  Indian's 
name  was  Pierre,  and  you  may  as  well  remember  it, 
as  he  is  a  prominent  figure  in  the  story. 

"  Besides  learning  all  he  could  from  Pierre,  whom 
he  used  to  bribe  with  tobacco  when  he  began  to  get 
tired  of  his  task  of  instructor,  Pere  Le  fleune  got 
two  little  children  to  teach,  and  was  so  happy  in 
teaching  them  the  catechism  and  the  Pater  JVoster  in 
Latin,  that  he  declared  he  would  not  exchange  them 
for  the  most  cultivated  audience  in  France.  And  when 
the  wandering  Indians  would  come  to  encamp  in  the 
neighborhood,  he  would  stand  at  his  doorway,  ringing 
a  bell,  as  his  brother  St.  Francis  Xavier  did  at  Goa, 
till  he  had  gathered  about  him  a  little  assembly  whom 
he  would  teach  as  best  he  could,  giving  them  a  porrin- 
ger full  of  peas  when  they  had  said  their  lessons  well, 
to  make  them  want  to  come  again.  As  soon  as  he  was 
able,  he  translated  the  Catecliism  and  the  Lord's 
Prayer  into  Indian  rhjnies,  for  you  know  he  had  no 
hymns  for  them,  and  it  used  to  give  him  the  greatest 


I 


U 


■Ai 


210 


PERE    LE    JP:UNE  S    CHRISTMAS. 


I 


•i4 


tg 


pleasure  to  hear  the  little  redskins  singing  through 
the  woods,  tliesc;  rhymes  that  he  had  taught  them. 

"  But  he  got  on  so  slowly,  in  spite  of  all  his  efforts, 
that  he  thought  lie  must  try  another  plan  to  get 
nearer  to  these  Lidians  whom  he  wanted  so  much  to 
persuade  to  become  servants  of  Christ.  And  for  this 
end  he  determined  to  cast  in  his  lot  for  a  whole  winter 
with  one  of  the  wandering  band  of  Algonquins  who 
used  to  roam  about  in  search  of  prey  on  the  shores  of 
the  Lower  St.  Lawrence  and  through  tlie  rocky  wil- 
derness around  tlie  sources  of  the  St.  John.  Another 
Jesuit  Father  —  a  good  man  named  Pere  De  None,  of 
whom  T  may  tell  you  another  time  a  very  touching 
story  —  had  gone  to  stay  for  a  few  weeks  with  such  a 
hunting  party,  some  distance  below  Quebec,  and  had 
come  back  half-dead  with  cold  and  semi-starvation, 
which  was  not  encouraging  for  Pere  Le  Jeune  ;  but  he 
was  a  stronger  man,  and  thought  he  could  stand  it. 

"  So  one  lovely  day  in  October  when  the  soft  Indian 
summer  sun  was  lighting  up  the  glowing  woods,  Pere 
Le  Jeune  embarked  in  one  of  the  Indian  canoes  and 
bade  farewell  to  his  anxious  comrades  and  to  his  friend 
Champlain.  He  took  with  him  a  little  store  of  bis- 
cuits, beans  and  otlier  things  of  the  same  kind  ;  and 
his  friends,  being  of  St.  Paul's  mind,  made  him  take  a 
little  keg  of  wine,  in  case  of  need.  This  wine,  how- 
ever, proved  rather  a  troublesome  gift  at  the  very  out- 
set ;  for    at  their   first  camping-place    on  a  beautiful 


1^;! 


m 


1  . 


PERE   LE    JEUNE  S    CHRISTMAS. 


211 


im 


island  in  the  St.  Lawrence,  Pierre  managed  to  get 
hold  of  it,  and  drink  enough  to  make  him  a  raving 
madman.  That  night  })oor  Pere  Le  Jeune  had  to 
spend,  hidden  from  this  vvreteh,  in  the  woods,  on  a  few 
leaves  spread  on  the  ground  —  '  a  bed,'  he  quaintly 
remarks,  '  whieh  had  not  been  made  up  since  the  crea- 
tion of  the  world.'  " 

"  I  think  that  would  be  jolly,''  broke  in  Norman, 
with  sparkling  eyes. 

"  Wait  till  you  try  it,  my  boy  !  "  said  his  father. 
"  It's  well  Pere  Le  Jenne  doesn't  seem  to  have  been  a 
rheumatic  subject.     I  hope  he  had  ii  blanket !  " 

"  He  had  his  cassock,"  replied  the  professor  ;  "■  and 
a  kind  squaw  covered  him  with  a  sheet  of  birch  bark. 

"  Well,  that  was  the  beginning,  and  things  went  on 
in  much  the  same  way.  Pierre  was  the  only  interpre- 
ter that  the  poor  father  had,  and  as  yet  he  knew  but 
little  Algonquin.  Pierre's  brother,  who  was  called 
Mestigoit,  was  the  chief  of  the  party,  and  very 
friendly  to  Pere  Le  Jeune.  There  was  a  third  brother 
who  was  an  Indian  sorcerer,  and  who,  being  jealous 
lest  his  own  influence  should  suffer,  did  all  he  could  to 
oppose  and  annoy  the  Jesuit,  while  Pierre,  as  might 
have  been  expected,  was  but  a  broken  reed. 

"  The  party  traveled  in  their  canoes  from  one 
point  to  another,  so  long  as  the  weather  continued 
mild,  seeking  fish,  birds  and  other  game.  Sometimes 
a  storm  threatened  their  frail    barks,  and  sometimes 


m 


i  -J 


m 


212 


PERE    LE    JEUNE  S    CHRISTMAS. 


■  I 


It   '/ 


they  would  be  half-starved  while  weather-bound  on 
an  island.  At  last  they  had  to  lay  up  their  canoes, 
and  take  to  tramping  on  foot  through  the  savage  wil- 
derness, over  swamps,  through  streams,  across  rocks 
and  morasses  and  fallen  trees,  encamping  for  a  time 
where  game  could  be  found,  and  then  marching  on  to 
a  fresh  hunting  ground.  As  tlie  cold  grew  keener  and 
the  snow  began  to  make  the  footing  more  treacherous, 
the  good  Father's  experiences  became  harder  still. 
When  they  stopped  at  night,  after  a  long  day's  tramp, 
he  was  fain  to  keep  himself  warm  by  helping  the 
squaws  to  cut  their  poles  and  set  up  their  wigwams,  as 
you  saw  in  the  picture,  while  the  hunters  went  off  to 
try  to  find  a  supper. 

"  The  wigwam  was  made  by  digging  out  a  circular 
space  in  the  snow,  making  an  embankment  round  it, 
in  which  the  poles  were  planted.  These  were  covered 
with  sheets  of  birch  bark,  while  a  curtain  of  bearskin 
hung  over  the  doorway.  An  opening  was  left  in  the 
roof  abovti  the  central  fireplace,  to  let  the  smoke  out, 
and  for  bedding,  the  ground  was  coveretl  with  hemlock 
boughs.  As  you  may  suppose,  the  smoke  did  not  all 
escape  by  the  hole  in  the  roof,  and  the  birch  bark  walls 
did  not  keep  out  much  (jold  ;  so  they  had  to  light 
o'reat  hot  fires  in  the  center,  and  Pere  Le  Jeune  d'^ 
not  know  which  was  the  worst,  the  fire  that  half-roasted 
liis  feet,  the  keen,  piercing  cold  that  penetrated  the 
ci'evices  in  the  bark  walls,  or  the  smoke  that  often 


PERE    LE    JEUNE's    CHRISTMAS. 


213 


made  his  eyes  smart  so  much  that,  when  he  tried  to 
read  his  breviary,  it  seemed  written  in  letters  of  blood. 

"  One  other  annoyance  he  tells  us  about  very  naively ; 
that  was  the  Indian  dogs  that  followed  the  party, 
and  would  seek  to  share  his  bed  at  night  or  wake  him 
up  by  careering  over  his  body  in  search  of  a  stray 
morsel  or  a  bone.  The  first  he  did  not  so  much  mind, 
as  the  animal  heat  helped  to  keep  him  warm,  and  as 
we  know  he  had  no  warm  coverings  for  his  couch  of 
hendock.  But  the  worst  of  all  was,  that  sometimes  for 
days  together,  tlie  hunters  could  find  no  game,  and  as 
Pere  Le  Jeune  had  long  since  divided  liis  own  little 
store  with  his  famishing  companions,  they  were  left  at 
such  times  with  nothing  to  stay  their  hunger.  At  this 
Christmas  time  we  are  speaking  of,  the  smaller  game 
was  very  scarce,  and  there  was  not  yet  snow  enough 
to  enable  them  to  hunt  the  moose  on  their  snow-shoes 
—  their  chief  dependence  in  winter.  On  that  })articular 
Christmas  Eve,  ns  I  told  you,  they  had  started  without 
breakfast,  and  for  supper  they  had  to  divide  among 
twenty,  only  a  small  porcupine  and  a  hare.  But  as  I 
said,  the  good  Father  thought,  not  as  he  might  have 
done,  of  Christmas  feasts  and  wassail  bowls  in  France, 
but  of  the  two  poor  wayfarers  in  the  stable  at  Bethlehem, 
who,  perhaps,  he  said,  were  not  so  well  treated  as  he  I 

"  I  like  to  picture  the  good  man  to  myself,  that 
evening,  leaving  the  noisy  chatter  of  the  smoky  wig- 
wam, where  the  Indians  added  to  the   smoke  of  the 


K  V> 


i  •'- 


^  II 


214 


PERE    LE    JEUNES    CHRISTMAS. 


5!''!'' 


fire  that  of  the  long  pipes,  whieli  at  such  times  were 
their  only  solace.  I  like  to  picture  him  going  out  to 
meditate  in  the  dark,  silent  forest,  under  the  light  of 
the  Christmas  stars,  where  the  only  sound  that  broke 
the  stillness  was  the  cracking  of  a  bough  in  the  keen 
frost,  or  the  dropping  of  a  twig  on  the  hard  crust  of 
the  snow.  I  like  to  think  of  the  diamond  points 
of  the  stars,  and  tbe  soft  quivering  streamers  of  the 
Northern  Lights  gleaming  through  the  giant  arms 
of  the  forest-trees,  lighting  the  darkness,  and  drawing 
his  thoughts  from  perhaps  dreaming  of  gorgeous 
Christmas  services  in  great  cathedrals,  to  that  simpler 
but  more  solemn  scene  under  the  open  Syrian  sky, 
when  the  '  glory  of  the  Lord  '  shone  round  the  shep- 
herds keeping  their  watch  by  night.  Was  he  not 
himself  like  a  shepherd  watching  over  his  wandering 
sheep,  or  better,  Marjorie,  a  ray  of  the  Northern 
Lights  shining  in  the  darkness  and  waiting  to  see  it 
dispelled  by  the  full  light  of  the  '  Star  in  the  East,' 
and  the  '  good  tidings  of  great  joy  which  should  be  to 
all  people  '  ? 

"  And  then  I  can  imagine  him,  cheered  and  re- 
freshed by'  such  thoughts  as  these,  making  his  way 
back  to  the  little  camp,  where  the  two  wigwams  that 
sheltered  the  party  were  visible  by  the  light  that 
streamed  through  the  crevices  of  the  birch  bark,  from 
the  fire  within.  Lifting  the  bearskin  curtain,  he  would 
enter  the  smoky  atmosphere  that  made  his  eyes  smart 


[|i 


PERK    LE    JEUNE  S    CHRISTMAS. 


215 


■t 


with  pain.  Then  he  woukl  make  his  way  hy  the  light 
of  the  red  glowing*  pine  knots,  among  the  prostrate 
forms  about  him,  of  men  and  women,  children  and 
dogs,  till  he  found  a  couch  on  tlie  bed  of  hendock 
boughs,  where,  lying  down,  he  could  still  see  the  stars 
through  the  opening  overhead.  By  and  by,  as  he  was 
dozing  off  to  sleep,  he  would  feel  a  weight  laid  on  his 
body,  or  a  cold  nose  close  to  his  face  ;  telling  him 
that  one  of  the  rough,  shaggy  dogs  was  thus  trying  to 
find  a  warmer  corner,  nor  was  the  additional  warmth 
it  afforded  him  unwelcome.  And  then  he  no  doubt 
thought  again  of  the  stable  at  Bethlehem,  where  dumb 
creatures  shared  the  first  shelter  of  Him  whom  the 
wise  men  from  the  East  came  to  worship  as  a  King. 

"  Christmas  Eve  passed  into  Christmas  morning,  and 
the  half-benumbed  sleepers  arose,  but  not  to  Christmas 
comfort  or  Christmas  clieer.  They  could  make  up  the 
fire  and  keep  themselves  warm,  but  breakfast  there 
was  none,  nor  any  hope  of  it,  for  even  the  bones  of 
last  night's  feast  had  been  devoured  by  the  hungry 
dogs.  The  hunters  took  up  again  their  bows  and 
arrows  and  set  out  on  a  fruitless  quest.  The  emaciated 
squaws  sat  silent  and  depressed,  or  soothed  the  hungry 
babes,  while  the  older  children  tried  to  forget  their 
hunger  or  bear  it  with  a  grave  endurance  worthy  of 
little  '  braves.'  When  the  good  Father  repeated  his 
Pater  Noster^  he  dwelt  with  greater  fervor  than  usual 
on  the  petition,  '  Give  us  this  day  our  daily  bread,'  and 


ill 


m\ 


'■■ti 


p 


210 


PERE    LE   JEUNE's    CHRISTMAS. 


I!     I 


' 


he  would  fain  have  directed  the  famishing  creatures  to 
Him  wlio  hears  the  young  ravens  when  they  cry.  But 
he  knew  too  little  of  their  language  yet,  and  the 
wretched  Pierre  would  give  him  no  help;  indeed 
seemed,  as  he  says,  '  possessed  by  a  dumb  spirit.'  So 
he  could  but  pray  for  them  as  he  wandered  through 
the  forest,  trying  to  api)ease  with  what  he  could  find 
there,  the  cravings  of  hungdr,  which,  as  he  says,  makes 
the  wolf  come  out  of  the  forest,  but  which  drove  him 
farther  in,  seeking  the  buds  of  trees,  which  he  ate 
'with  relish.'  And  then  he  found  some  strips  of  deer- 
skin, such  as  you  have  for  straps  to  your  snow-shoes, 
which  the  dogs  would  not  touch,  but  which  made  his 
Christmas  dinner,  and  which  he  gratefully  called  '  good.' 
"  There  was  nothing  more  for  hini  or  any  one  else 
that  day.  In  the  evening  he  went  to  visit  the  other 
cahcme,  as  he  calls  the  wigwam.  He  found  things 
there  much  the  same  as  in  his  own.  The  young  hun- 
ters who  had  been  out  all  day,  were  sitting  weary  and 
dejected  by  their  lack  of  success,  and  the  gloomy  pros- 
pect of  starvation.  The  good  Father  was  '  touched  to 
the  heart '  by  their  despair,  and  tried  to  speak  to  them 
some  words  of  consolation,  some  hope  of  better  things ; 
iiiid  then  returned  to  his  own  wigwam  to  pray  for  those 
wi?o  could  not  pray  for  themselves.  The  renegade 
I'ieiTe,  probably  through  seeing  him  thus  employed, 
»\  as  moved  to  ask  '  what  day  it  was  ? '  Pere  Le  tTeune 
replied  that  '  to-day  was  the  feast  of  Christmas.'     I 


PERE  LE  JEUNE  S  CHRISTMAS. 


217 


suppose  that  some  memory  from  his  past  life  must 
have  iiioniL'iitaiily  touched  the  wayward  heart  of  the 
'  apostate,'  as  the  father  ealls  him  ;  for  he  turned  to 
his  brother,  the  half-erazy  '  soreerer,'  and  exphiined  to 
him  that  thattwas  the  day  when  Jesus,  the  Son  of  God, 
had  been  born.  Noting  the  surprise  of  the  '■  sorcerer,' 
Pere  Le  Jeune  spoke  to  him  of  the  goodness  of  God 
who  couhl  and  woukl  give  them  the  help  they  needed, 
if  they  would  ask  Ilim.  Pierre  was  silent ;  for  once  he 
abstained  from  contradietion.  Pere  Le  Jeune  seized 
the  favorable  moment  to  ask  him  to  translate  for  him 
into  the  Algonquin  language,  two  i)rayers,  the  one  to 
be  said  by  the  Fatlier  himself,  the  other  by  the  Indians. 
Pierre  was  willing,  in  the  extremity  of  their  need,  to 
try  anything  that  might  possibly  bring  relief.  Aeeord- 
ingly  the  two  i)rayers  were  at  onee  dictated  by  the 
Father,  and  translated  by  Pierre,  wlio  agreed  also  to 
act  as  interpreter  on  the  morrow  ;  and  then  commend- 
ing the  matter  to  his  Lord,  according  to  his  wont,  tlie 
Father  lay  down  to  sleep,  hoping  for  good  to  come  out 
of  evil. 

"  Next  morning,  with  siu'h  small  resources  as  he 
could  command  —  a  crucifix  and  some  pictures  from 
his  breviary  —  he  arranged  a  little  oratory  which  he 
thought  might  impress  the  savages.  Then  he  assem- 
bled the  whole  of  the  party  and  addressed  them,  mainly 
by  the  mouth  of  Pierre,  to  whose  interpreting  he  did 
not   care   to  trust    himself    altogether.     Lender    these 


14 


m 


i*?s 


218 


PERE    LE    .TEUNES    CHRISTMAS. 


difficulties  he  explained  to  them,  in  the  simplest  lan- 
guage, that  he  was  forced  by  the  extremity  to  speak 
to  them ;  that  it  would  be  their  own  fault  if  they  were 
not  succored ;  that  God  was  goodness  itself ;  that 
nothing  was  impossible  to  him,  and  thai  even  though 
they  had  rejected  liim,  yet,  if  they  would  now  truly 
believe  in  him  and  hope  in  him,  he  would  not  refuse 
to  hear.  And  as  the  poor  starving  savages  had  now 
lost  hope  in  their  bows  and  arrows,  they  were  glad  to 
catch  at  what  he  offered,  and  promised  to  do  whatever 
he  might  command.  The  Father,  rejoiced  at  this,  read 
the  prayer  he  had  written  for  them,  asking  them  if 
they  were  willing  thus  to  pray  to  his  God  with  true 
and  sincere  hearts.  They  all  exclaimed,  '  We  are  will- 
ing ! '  They  then  followed  the  example  he  set  thorn 
by  falling  on  their  knees  with  uncovered  heads.  Then 
all  joined  hands  and  raised  their  eyes  to  Heaven, 
while  Pere  Le  Jeune  repeated  in  Algonquin  a  simple, 
earnest  prayer,  asking  Him  who  has  promised  to  hear 
and  answer  prayer,  to  give  food  to  these  poor  people, 
promising,  on  their  behalf,  that  they  would  believe 
in  Him  and  obey  Him  from  their  hearts,  and  ending 
by  saying,  '  de  hon  cop.ur^  as  he  tells  us,  that  he  him- 
self was  willing  to  die  that  they  might  live,,  and  that 
they  might  know  Him  too. 

"  But  his  host,  Mestigoit,  touched  by  these  words, 
begged  him  to  take  them  back  ;  for,  he  said,  *we  love 
thee,  and  do  not  desire  thy  death  ! ' 


PEKK    LK    .lEUNES    CIIKISTMAS. 


219 


"  But  Pere  Le  Jeiine  replied,  '  I  wish  to  show  you 
that  I  love  you,  and  that  I  would  gladly  give  my  life 
for  your  salvation,  so  great  a  thing  is  it  to  be  saved ! ' 

"  Then  the  Indians  joined  hands,  and,  kneeling  as 
before,  they  repeated  after  him  the  prayer  he  had  (mjui- 
posed  for  themselves.  In  this  prayer  they  solemnly 
promised  that  if  God  would  give  tliem  food,  they  would 
henceforward  believe  in  him  fully  and  obey  him  en- 
tirely, and  asked  him  who  had  died  for  them  to  help 
them  to  believe  in  him  i)erfectly.  Even  Pierre  and 
the  '•  sorcerer '  joined  in  this  prayer,  the  F'ather  re- 
marking, 'It  is  for  God  to  judge  their  hearts.'  Then 
the  hunters  went  to  the  chase  cheered  and  hopeful. 

"  The  results  justified  the  good  Father's  faith. 
Several  beaver  were  caught  from  a  dam  which  had 
previously  been  abandoned.  I  am  sorry,  boys,  I  can't 
tell  you  how  they  were  caught,  for  Pere  Le  Jeune 
doesn't  tell  us,  though  he  saw  onr  captured.  I  don't 
care  either  to  kill  things  or  to  see  them  killed,  myself, 
but  if  ever  a  man  might  be  excused  for  being  glad  to 
see  a  poor  animal  taken,  Pere  Le  Jeune  might,  then  I 
They  caught  a  porcupine,  too  ;  and  even  a  moose-deer 
was  brought  home  in  triumph  —  an  unex})ected  prizt.' 
when  there  was  so  little  depth  of  snow,  f^ach  of  the 
hunters  had  taken  something,  except  Pierre  alone. 

"  As  they  brought  in  their  game,  Pere  Le  Jeune  met 
his  host  with  outstretched  hand  and  full  heart.  Mesti- 
goit  joyfully  recognized  the  help  that  God  had  sent 


t 


r 


220 


TKUK    LK    .1  KINKS    (HUISTMAS. 


and  inqnirtul  what  tlu;}'  must  now  do.  Perc  Le  Jeune 
replied  that  they  must  tliank  (lod  who  had  lielped 
them.  '  And  wherefore,  indeed?'  exehiimed  the  in- 
eorrigibh'  Pierre  ;  a(hlin<^",  '  We  sliouhl  have  found  this 
well  enou<;h  without  his  help  I  ' 

"  Poor  Pere  Le  fleune  felt  tlie  reekless  words  like  '  a 
poniard  stroke,'  for  lie  well  divined  what  tlunr  effect 
would  be.  Still,  however,  Mesti<;oit  seemed  desirous 
of  following  the  instructions  of  Pere  Le  fJeune,  and 
would  probably  have  done  so  but  for  the  strong  oppos- 
ing influence  of  the  vsorcerer.'  A  feast  was  of  course 
immediately  prepared,  and  the  Father  attended  it  in 
order  to  lead  the  hearts  of  the  savages  to  recognize 
God's  goodness,  and  return  thanks  for  his  help.  But 
just  as  he  was  about  to  do  so,  Pierre,  who  was  angry 
that  he  had  taken  nothing,  and  had  refused  to  act  as 
interpreter,  rudely  interru])ted  him  and  insolently  or- 
dered him  to  be  silent,  Pere  Le  Jeune  said  that  he 
would  not,  for  if  l*ierre  was  ungrateful,  the  others 
were  not  so. 

"  But  the  '  sorcerer,'  jealous  for  his  own  influence 
and  now  freed  from  his  fear  of  starving,  exclaimed : 
'  Be  silent !  thou  art  a  fool !  This  is  not  the  time  to 
talk,  but  to  eat ! '  Pere  Le  Jeune,  in  distress,  asked 
him  if  he  had  not  eyes,  if  he  did  not  see  the  good  hand 
of  God?  But  he  would  not  listen  and  the  others  were 
too  submissive  to  his  influence  even  to  speak.  And 
so  the  feast  proceeded,  and,  without  any  thanksgiving, 


1 


PERE    LK   .IEUNE8    ClIlilHTMAH. 


001 


the  Indians  fell  upon  their  prey  like  ravenous  animals, 
'like  swine,'  as  he  says  iiiniselt",  '<lev()uriny  their  acorns 
without  any  regard  to  the  hand  that  feeds  thenu' 

'*  It  was  a  terrible  disappointment.  lie  had  re- 
joiced so  nmch  over  the  answer  to  his  prayer,  and  had 
hoped  so  much  from  the  result,  i^ut  all  he  says  is : 
» Tliey  were  filled  with  content,  I  with  sorrow.  But  it 
must  be  left  to  the  will  of  God.  This  people's  time  is 
not  yet  come  ! '  " 

"  Poor  Pere  Le  Jeune  I  "  exclaimed  Mrs.  Ramsay ; 
"  and  yet  why  should  we  say  '  poor  '  ?  a  man  so  ri(di 
in  faith  and  Christian  patience  is  to  be  envied  rather 
than  pitied  I " 

"  I  should  like  the  people  who  doubt  whether  these 
Jesuits  were  Christians,  to  hear  that  story,"  said  Dr. 
Ramsay.  "  How  bigotry  (tuts  the  roots  of  Christian 
kinship.  That  was  about  —  when,  Duncan?  I'm  no 
good  at  dates." 

"Nor  I,  generally,"  he  replied.  "But  some  1 
never  forget.  That  was  in  the  year  1G83,  two  years 
before  Champlain's  death ;  and  Chami)lain  died,  you 
know,  exactly  a  hundred  years  after  Jacques  Cartier 
landed  at  Quebec.  There's  a  small  mnemonic  system 
for  you  !  And  by  the  way,  it  was  just  about  that 
same  time,  that  a  Jesuit  going  to  Scotland,  to  convert 
your  forefathers  —  and  mine  too,  for  that  matter  —  was 
hanged  in  Edinburgh  for  his  zeal,  by  '  that  sanctified 
Derson,'  King  James !     Think  of  those  two  extremes, 


I 


m 


:     » ■  it 


•If 


V,", 


I  6! 


222 


PEHE   LE   JEUNE'S   CIIHISTMAS. 


I 


ono  of  tlio  brotherhood  going  to  the  enlightened  Soots, 
and  the  other  to  the  savage  Indians,  and  botli,  alike, 
taking  their  lives  in  their  hands !  " 

"  Well,  we  Presbyterians  at  any  rate  have  no  reason 
to  bless  King  .lames  !  "  said  Dr.  Kanisay,  with  u 
slight  smile ;  *'  yet  there  might  have  been  souk;  little 
excuse  for  him,  for,  if  I  mistak(;  not,  it  was  about  that 
same  time  that  others  of  that  same  brotherhood  were 
instigating  the  eruel  persecution  of  the  Moravians,  the 
butchery  and  exile  of  men,  women  and  children,  for 
the  same  '  greater  glory  of  God  I '  " 

"  True  enough  !"  replied  the  professor.  "  Such  havoc 
does  human  bigotry  and  eccJesiasticism  ma^e  of  tho 
pure  Gospel  of  Love  I  There  have  been  queer  things 
done  in  the  name  of  Christianity ;  and  not  a  few  by 
f Jesuits.  But  let  us  be  glad  of  the  noble  things  that 
have  been  done  in  the  same  name,  in  true  following  of 
Christ.  We  mustn't  forget  the  light  in  thinking  of 
the  darkness  I  You  were  speaking  of  Gordon  as 
showing  the  same  spirit  with  Pere  Le  Jeune.  And 
those  eleven  young  Cambridge  graduates,  led  by  Wil- 
liam C.  Studd,  of  whom  I  was  reading  the  other  day  — 
that's  worthy  of  a  heroic  age,  too !  Think,  Alan  and 
(xerald,  of  a  Cambridge  honour-man  and  athlete  leav- 
ing all  his  English  ambitions  behind  him,  and  going  to 
China  to  devote  his  life  to  a  people  whom  too  many 
professed  Christians  regard  as  the  very  scum  of  the 
earth,  not  to  be  allowed  to  contaminate  this  Western 


rKKK    LE    JEUNES    CIIUIST.M AS. 


223 


continent !     No  wonder  such  a  niiin  makes  other  fel- 
lows listen  to  him,  in  tlie  e<)Ilej;(*s,  wlu'iever  he  goes  ! 

"Yes,"  continued  Professor  Duncan,  "-the  spirit 
that  sent  Pere  Le  .Jeune  to  cany  light  into  the  dark- 
ness, isn't  dead,  nor  ever  will  die  '  Lo,  I  am  with 
you  alway  ; '  and  it's  true." 

Gerald  and  Ahm  h)oked  very  thouglitful,  and  j\Iar- 
jorie  sat  listening  with  intense  interest.  J^ut  hoth  she 
and  Millie  wanted  to  know  more  ahout  Pere  Le  .leune, 
and  Jack  re-echoed  Millie's  eager  incjuiries : 

''  Did  he  get  safe  home?  How  did  tlicy  get  on  the 
rest  of  the  winter?  Did  he  convert  the  Indians  after 
all?" 

"  The  rest  of  the  winter  was  mucli  like  what  I  have 
told  you  about  in  tlie  beginning,"  said  the  j)rofessor  ; 
"•but  although  they  heard  of  people  starving  to  death 
around  them,  they  seem  never  to  have  been  in  (piite 
such  despair  again,  though  things  looked  (hirk  enough 
at«  times.  After  the  snow  grew  deei)er  tliey  had  no 
more  scarcity  of  food,  for  tlien,  on  their  snow-shoes, 
they  could  catch  as  many  elks  as  they  needed.  But 
the  traveling  was  something  terrible  I  Pere  Lii  Jeune 
went  up  nearly  to  tlie  top  of  one  mountain,  'armed 
with  horrible  rocks,'  from  which,  they  told  hiin,  under 
a  clear  sky  he  could  have  seen  at  once  Quebec  and 
Tadousac ;  and  he  shuddered  to  look  at  the  wild  ex- 
panse of  hills  and  precipices  and  rocks,  tlirougli  whieli 
his  party  had  to  make  tlieir   way,  carrying  witii   tiiem 


I 


m 


I ' 


IM^ 


I ':. . 


224 


PERE    LE    JEUNE  8    CHRISTMAS. 


i- 1-- 


their  luggage,  sueli  as  it  was.  When  they  had  to  take 
to  dried  meat,  he  became  ill  from  the  laek  of  other 
food,  and  was  laid  up  for  three  weeks,  during  which  time 
he  had  nuu'h  to  hear  from  the  sneers  of  the  '  sorcerer,' 
who  deteste(i  him,  and  who  would  have  insisted  on  his 
carrying  some  of  the  i)aggage  when  weakened  by  ill- 
ness, if  Mestigoit  had  not  interfered  and  taken  it  on 
his  own  sled  —  a  sort  of  tobog<xan.  It  was  well  that  he 
was  able  to  join  in  the  march  when  necessary,  for  the 
aged  or  feeble  members  of  such  a  party  were  some- 
times killed  when  unable  to  walk  further.  Pere  Le 
Jeune  must  have  been  glad  when,  at  the  end  of  Janu- 
ary, the  party  turned  their  faces  in  the  direction  of 
Quebec ;  and  still  more  thankful  when,  in  March,  the 
'  sorcerer '  and  Pierre  left  the  party  to  go  on  before 
them  to  the  St.  Lawrence. 

"  At  length,  eaily  in  April,  the  party,  including  Pere 
Le  Jeune,  reached  the  river  and  end)arked  once  more 
in  their  boats.  As  the  Father  was  still  weak  and  ex- 
hausted, Mestigoit  undertook  to  convey  him,  with 
Pierre,  to  Quebec  in  his  own  canoe.  They  had  a 
stormy  voyage,  and  a  hair-breadth  escape  from  destruc- 
tion by  the  floating  ice.  At  last,  on  a  tempestuous 
moonlight  night,  they  came  in  sight  of  the  rock  of 
Quebec ;  but  masses  of  floating  ice  lay  between  them 
and  the  shore,  lined  with  piles  of  the  dislodged  ice. 
Mestiffoit  shot  his  canoe  adroitly  throusih  the  drifting; 
cakes,  and  reaching  the  vdixo.  of  that  which  was  still 


PERE    LE    JEUNE  8    CHRISTMAS. 


225 


firm,  managed  to  get  Pere  Le  Jeuiie  safely  up  upon 
the  fixed  ice,  six  feet  above  the  water.  We  can  well 
imagine  how  thankfully  the  weary  Father  must  have 
made  his  way,  at  tliree  o'eloek  in  the  morning,  to  JVotre 
Dame  des  Anges^  and  how  gladly  his  anxious  brethren 
must  have  opened  to  his  knoek.  Kenieniber,  they  had 
heard  not  a  word  of  him  for  six  weary  months,  and 
did  not  know  whether  he  was  alive  or  dead,  till  then! " 

"  Thank  you  for  the  story,  Duncan,"  said  Dr.  Ram- 
say. "  It  makes  me  wish  that  I  had  time  to  read  up 
these  things,  as  you  have.  It  is  better  than  a  sermon  ; 
for  it's  a  sermon  and  a  tonic  in  one." 

"  What's  the  text  of  the  sermon.  Uncle  ? "  asked 
Marjorie,  who  had  been  thinking  of  her  father's 
comments  on  the  story  of  the  Northern  Lights. 

"The  text?  Well,  it  might  have  more  than  one 
text,  I  think.  What's  your  idea,  Marjorie?  for  I'm 
sure  you  have  one." 

"  Oh  I  it  made  me  think  of  something  my  father 
said  once  about  the  text,  '  The  light  shineth  in  dark- 
ness, and  the  darkness  comprehendeth  it  not.'  For 
you  see  the  Indians  didn't  comprehend  him,  did 
they  ?  " 

"  No  !  that's  not  a  bad  idea,  Marjorie,"  said  the 
professor.  "  Certainly  they  didn't  comprehend  much, 
poor  creatures.  And  Pere  Le  Jeune  has  no  conver- 
sions to  tell  of  on  tlir.t  i)ilgriniage.  But  yet,  even  the 
ignorant  can  feel  where  they  can't  comprehend ;  and 


I 


4V- 


I 


226 


PERE   LE    JEUNE  S    CHRISTMAS. 


I  think  such  an  example  of  self-sacrificing  love  could 
scarcely  have  been  lost  altogether,  even  on  them.  I 
don't  doubt  that  its  fruits  were  reaped  by  others,  if 
not  by  Pere  Le  Jeune.  And  to  us,  every  such  noble 
Christian  life  is  an  ideal  and  an  inspiration.*' 

''  Yes,"  added  Dr.  Kamsay,  as  they  rose  to  go  to 
tea,  "  and  a  rebuke  to  our  modern  rose-water  Chris- 
tianity that  pampers  itself  with  luxury,  and  talks  to 
no  end,  and  sings  : 

• 

"  '  Shall  we,  whose  souls  are  lighted 

With  wisdom  from  ou  high, 
Shall  we,  to  men  benighted, 

The  lamp  of  life  deny  ?  " 


and  then  drops  a  half -grudged  dollar  or  so  into  the  mis- 
sionary collection,  and  troubles  itself  no  more  about 
the  matter !  Why,  those  poor  Salvation  Army  people 
who  were  arrested  last  week  for  making  a  disturbance, 
are  a  hundred  times  more  in  earnest  than  at  least  two 
thirds  of  our  average  church  Christians!  There  is 
the  spirit  of  Pere  Le  Jeune  among  them.  I  tell  you, 
Duncan,  I've  felt  a  lump  in  my  throat  more  than  once 
when  I've  seen  them  —  women  as  well  as  men  —  kneel- 
ing down  to  pray  in  some  of  the  miserable  streets  and 
alleys  where  few  people  ever  go  who  can  help  it,  and 
heard  them  putting  all  their  hearts  into  their  prayers 
for  the  poor  creatures  about  them,  till  even  the  hardest 
would  seem  a  little  softened,  for  the  time  at  least. 


PERE    LE   JEUNE  S    CHRISTMAS. 


227 


Well,  we're  all  ready  enough  to  judge  others  !  Let  us 
remember  Pere  Le  Jeune  and  Isaac  Jogues,  and  try  to 
catch  the  inspiration  of  the  same  spirit  where  they 
caught  theirs  I  " 

"  Amen!  "  exclaimed  the  professor,  while  the  younger 
ones  looked  grave  and  thoughtful,  and  even  Ada,  for 
a  little  while,  had  not  a  word  to  say. 


1 


1 

Mr 


m 


// 


H 


CHAPTER   XII. 


A   NEW   YEAR  S    PARTY. 


■nW 


For  New  Year's  Day,  Marjorie  had  a  pressing 
invitation  from  Ada  to  spend  the  day  with  her. 

"  It  will  be  such  fun,"  Ada  said,  "  for  you  and  me 
to  sit  in  the  drawing-room,  as  I  always  do,  and  see  all 
the  gentlemen  who  come  to  see  mamma.  Some  of 
them  come  to  see  me,  too,"  she  added,  with  a  rather 
conscious  smile.  "  I  think  it's  great  fun,  any  time, 
but  it  will  be  ever  so  much  nicer  to  have  you  to  talk 
to  while  mamma  is  talking  to  the  gentlemen." 

Mrs.  West  was  to  have  a  musical  party  in  the 
evening,  and  Marion  and  AhA\  were  invited  to  come 
then,  Marjorie  of  course  remaining  to  dine  with  Ada. 
Marion,  as  a  rule,  did  not  go  to  gay  parties.  She  did 
not  care  for  them  herself,  and  neither  Dr.  Ramsay  nor 
his  wife  cared  to  have  their  children  frequent  large 
and  late  entertainmentr-  which,  as  Dr.  Ramsay  ex- 
pressed it,  combined  a  maximum  of  frivolity  and 
extravagance  with  a  minimum  of  healthful  recreation ; 
or  as  Mrs.  Ramsay  more  briefly  put  it,  were  a  great 

228 


1' 


A    NEW    YEAR  S    PARTY. 


229 


waste  of  time  and  money.  But  Marion  loved  music 
and  sang  very  sweetly,  so  that  a  good  .musical  party 
was  a  real  pleasure  to  her ;  while  for  Alan,  not  yet 
arrived  at  the  dignity  of  being  invited  to  "  grown-up 
parties  "  generally,  this  one  was  a  great  treat ;  pro- 
cured for  him,  as  he  could  easily  divine,  through  the 
joint  mediation  of  Gerald  and  Ada,  because  his  sister 
and  cousin  were  asked,  and  they  knew  that  he  would 
not  like  to  be  left  out. 

The  old  year  passed  away  as  usual,  giving  place 
silently  to  the  new,  with  its  unknown  burden  of  cares, 
responsibilities,  joys  and  sorrows.  To  Marjorie  it 
seemed  as  if  the  year  just  ended  had  been  the  longest 
and  most  eventful  of  her  life.  Her  Aunt  Millie's  mar- 
riage closing  one  chapter  of  it ;  the  opening  of  a  new 
chapter,  with  new  scenes,  new  friends,  new  interests  ; 
her  father's  absence ;  and  last,  not  least,  the  new 
thoughts  and  inspirations  that  had  come  to  her,  marked 
off  this  past  year  very  distinctly  from  all  the  rest. 
More  especially,  the  new  light  that  had  come  to  her 
since  she  had  heard  so  much  about  the  "light  that 
shineth  in  darkness,"  had  become  a  real  and  living 
force  in  her  life,  and,  combined  with  the  thought  of 
her  father,  almost  unconsciously  influenced  her  thoughts 
and  judgments  and  acts.  And  when  she  looked  back 
to  last  New  Year's  Day,  she  could  scarcely  believe  that 
she  was  only  one  year  older. 

There  was  a  nice  New  Year  letter  from  her  father 


'1^ 


-n 


ill 


m  t 


230 


A   NEW   YEAR'S    PARTY. 


before  it  was  time  for  her  to  go  to  Mrs.  West's,  for  he 
had  taken  care  to  calculate  very  carefully  the  mail  ar- 
rangemen*:s,  that  his  letters  should  arrive  just  at 
the  right  timt.  He  had  many  pleasant  scenes  to  de- 
scribe, besides  the  New  Year  wishes  and  counsels ; 
and  he  was  much  cheered,  as  he  said,  in  the  separation 
to  find  that  ;'  <  >  so  happy  in  Montreal.  And  she 
looked  bright  h.'  ''py  enough,  her.  aunt  thought, 
when  slie  came  dowix  ni  Jiei  varm  wraps  ready  to  be 
driven  to  Mrs.  *^'at's  J  "  v  uncle  as  he  went  to  see 
his  patients. 

Ada  was  watching  for  her  friend,  ready  to  greet  her 
with  a  hearty  kiss,  and  a  "  Happy  New  Year !  "  She 
expressed  great  admiration,  too,  of  Marjorie's  appear- 
ance, when  her  out-door  wrappings  were  laid  aside. 
For  of  course  she  had  to  wear  a  dress  suitable  for  the 
evening  party,  and  the  one  evening  dress  she  had  was 
the  pretty  pale  maize-colored  cashmere  that  had  been 
her  bridesmaid's  attire  at  her  Aunt  Millie's  wedding, 
which  had  been  made  under  the  special  supervision  of 
the  bride,  and  had  pleased  even  her  father's  critical 
eye.  It  was  very  becoming  to  her  dark  hair  and  eyes, 
and  clear,  pale  complexion  ;  and  she  wore  as  her  only 
ornament,  Ada's  pretty  locket.  Mrs.  West,  as  well  as 
Ada,  admired  her  dress,  all  the  more  that  it  was  "  from 
New  York,"  for,  whatever  her  prejudices  against 
Americans  might  be,  they  certainly  did  not  extend  to 
American  fashions.     She  herself  was  richly  dressed  in 


» 


A   NEW    YEARS    PARTY. 


231 


velvet  and  lace  for  her  New  Year's  reception  ;  and 
Ada  looked  charming  in  a  blue  silk  afternoon  dress 
which,  as  she  explained  to  Marjorie,  was  to  be  ex- 
changed for  a  white  evening  dress  for  "  the  party." 

If  Ada  found  tlie  afternoon  '^  reception  "  amusing,  it 
was  more  than  Marjorie  did.  The  callers  were  all 
strangers  to  her,  and  the  greetings  and  good  wishes 
sounded  for  the  most  part,  rather  flat  and  stereotyped. 
The  luxurious  drawing-room,  too,  did  not  seem  quite 
such  a  vision  of  beauty  as  it  had  the  first  time 
she  had  seen  it.  She  felt  the  satiating  sensation  of 
too  much  ornament,  too  much  ostentation  of  richness 
and  luxury.  The  air  was  laden  with  the  fragrance 
from  the  open  conservatory,  and  the  gracefully  ar- 
ranged vases  of  flowers  that  were  scattered  about  the 
room ;  the  servants  were  attentive  in  handing  the  del- 
icate refreshments  in  readiness  to  the  guests,  and  the 
glow  of  the  bright  coal  fire  sparkled  on  gilding  and 
rich  draperies  and  charming  pictuies  ;  but  all  this  had 
lost  the  first  charm  of  novelty,  and  Marjorie  could  not 
feel  so  much  herself,  so  free  and  bright,  as  she  did  in 
Mrs.  Ramsay's  simple  but  home-like  drawing-room,  or 
in  the  dear,  homely  "  study,"  littered  as  it  often  was 
with  the  play  of  the  children.  The  very  magnificence 
about  her  seemed  to  j^all  upon  and  oppress  her,  and 
she  no  longer  wondered  that  it  was  evidently  so  com- 
monplace to  Ada  and  Gerald,  who  openly  disdained 
the  multiplicity  of  "  gewgaws." 


!     IIjI 


'jn 


i 


232 


A   NEW    YEAR  S   PARTY. 


As  for  the  talk  that  went  on,  it  was  very  much  in 
keeping  with  the  surroundings.  It  was  all,  or  almost 
all,  what  her  father  used  to  call  "  outside  talk,"  and  it 
all  ran  on  the  same  track.  The  weather  was  discussed, 
and  the  chances  of  a  thaw,  with  the  prospects  of  the 
progress  and  completion  of  the  ice-palace,  in  time  for 
the  Carnival,  now  fixed  for  the  end  of  the  month. 
Then  the  various  arrangements  for  that  were  canvassed. 
The  new  toboggan  slides  to  be  opened,  the  French  Ca- 
nadian trophy  to  be  erected  on  the  Champ  de  Mars, 
the  grand  ball,  and,  in  particular,  the  expected  visit  of 
the  Governor-General  and  his  wife,  with  its  attendant 
festivities.  This  seemed  to  be  the  inevitable  round. 
One  or  two  gentlemen  indeed  referred  to  matters  of 
public  interest.  Bismarck's  policy,  the  progress  of 
Wolseley's  Nile  expedition,  and  the  fortunes  of  the 
Canadian  voyac/evrs  with  it,  the  probable  fate  of  Gor- 
don and  Khartoum,  were  cursorily  touched  upon ; 
but  were  soon  dropped,  for  it  was  evident  that  the  fair 
hostess  whose  mind  revolved  in  a  small  circle  of  out- 
ward interests  more  or  less  connected  with  herself, 
"  cared  for  none  of  these  things."  Some  of  the  gentle- 
men made  some  of  the  smallest  of  small  talk  for  Ada, 
in  which  Marjorie  disdained  to  take  part,  as  an  implied 
insult  to  the  intelligence  of  girls  nearly  fourteen  !  As 
the  afternoon  faded  into  dusk,  and  the  gas  was  lighted 
in  the  pretty  crystal  chandeliers,  the  visitors  grew 
more  numerous  and  the  visits  still  briefer,  as  every 


i> 


A    NEW    YEAR  S    PARTY. 


233 


one  seemed  hurrying  to  aceompHsh  his  allotted  round  ; 
a  hundred  seeming  to  be  no  unusual  number.  Mr. 
Hayward  made  his  appearance  about  five,  to  stay  to 
dinner  ;  and  then  Ada's  spirits  rose  at  once,  and  her 
tongue  seemed  to  go  faster  than  ever.  The  young  man 
was  evidently  a  favorite  both  with  mother  and  daugh- 
ter, and  knew  how  to  ingratiate  himself  with  both. 
He  had  been  accompanying  Dick  on  his  round  of  visits, 
leaving  out  certain  "  old  fogies  "  to  whom  Dick  had  still 
to  pay  some  "  duty  visits,"  and  when  the  ordinary  call- 
ers began  to  thin  off,  Mr.  Hayward  kept  Mrs.  West 
and  Ada  amused  with  a  run  of  satirical  little  comments 
on  their  friends  and  acquaintances  whom  he  had  been 
visiting.  Mrs.  West  never  showed  much  animation  of 
manner.  She  was  indeed  exceedingly  lazy,  and  more- 
over rather  affected  — 


" that  repose 

Which  stamps  the  caste  of  Vere  de  Vere." 


Mr.  Hayward's  rich  English  voice,  and  soft,  drawl- 
ing English  accent  just  suited  her,  while  the  vein  of 
raillery  and  the  way  in  which  he  "  touched  off ''  the 
peculiarities  of  her  friends,  seemed  to  entertain  her 
greatly.  Marjorie  wondered  a  little  how  both  she  and 
Ada  could  enjoy  so  much  this  "  making  fun  "  of  their 
most  intimate  friends,  and  she  noticed  that  nothing 
kind  or  pleasant  was  said  of  any  one ;  and  that  the  sa- 
tirical remarks  were  particularly  biting  when  clergy- 


li 


1  '1 


234 


A    NEW    YEAR  S    PARTY. 


■a"' 


men  or  their  families  came  under  discussion.  And  as 
she  had  a  natural  dislike  of  satire  and  satirical  people, 
she  ceased  to  listen  to  the  talk,  and  was  soon  absorbed 
in  an  album  of  line  foreign  photographs  which  Mrs. 
West  had,  years  ago,  brought  from  abroad. 

At  dinner  Marjorie  for  the  first  time  saw  Mr.  West, 
who  looked  like  what  he  was  —  a  shrewd,  energetic 
business  man,  with  a  good  deal  of  the  complacency  of 
success  about  him.  Two  things  were  particularly  ap- 
parent, that  he  was  very  fond  and  very  proud  of  Ada, 
and  that  he  enjoyed  a  good  dinner ;  and  indeed  the  long 
and  elaborate  dinners  rather  bewildered  Marjorie.  So 
many  courses,  such  luxurious  appointments,  and  most 
of  all,  the  variety  of  wines,  were  a  new  experience  to 
her.  She  met  with  some  banter  from  her  host  for 
persistently  declining  to  drink  anything  but  water, 
and  noticed  with  surprise  that  Ada  drank  her  glass 
of  champagne  with  great  satisfaction.  Mr.  Ilayward 
and  Dick  West  evidently  thought  that  any  one  who 
could  refuse  good  champagne  must  be  little  short 
of  a  lunatic,  but  they  evidently  did  not  consider  Mar- 
jorie's  abstinence  worth  notice,  while  she  cared  as  little 
for  their  opinion.  Mr.  West,  however,  did  look  wor- 
ried when  he  noticed  Dick  helping  himself  to  wine 
more  freely  than  he  ajjproved,  while  Mrs.  West  seemed 
a  little  uneasy  lest  his  annoyance  might  find  expression 
in  words  and  be  construed  into  a  reflection  on  their 
English  guest.     So  that  the  latter  part  of  the  dinner 


A    NEW    YEAR  S    PAKTY. 


235 


was  not  very  satisfactory  and  the  hostess  rose  to  retire 
as  soon  as  she  coiikl,  remarking  that  Ada  had  to 
change  her  dress  for  the  party. 

"Dear  me!"  said  Mr.  West,  "I  thought  she  was 
quite  fine  enough  aheady !  Well,  Ada,  we'll  see  what 
a  swell  you  are,  by  and  by.  I  sujipose  you  mean  to 
be  the  belle  of  the  evening." 

He  evidently  thought  she  would,  when  she  appeared 
in  the  drawing-room  in  a  fairy-like  apparel  of  white 
gossamer  and  lace,  with  a  garniture  of  blue  just  suffi- 
cient to  contrast  effectively  with  her  golden  hair,  the 
delicacy  of  her  fair  complexion,  and  the  soft  roses  in 
her  cheeks.  She  wore  a  little  cluster  of  rosebuds  to 
match  these,  on  the  breast  of  her  dress ;  and  she  made 
a  charming  picture,  of  which  her  father  might  be  ex- 
cused for  feeling  proud.  Marjorie  and  she  made  a 
happy  contrast,  and  as  a  counterpart  to  Ada's  pink 
rosebuds,  Marjorie  had  a  bouquet  of  white  and  tea- 
roses,  which  Ada  had  arranged  for  her.  Alan  was 
enthusiastic  in  his  admiration  of  both  the  girls,  when 
he  arrived  with  Marion  ;  and  if  his  expression  of  it 
was  not  quite  so  open  to  Ada  as  to  his  cousin,  it  was 
very  evident  that  his  boyish  eyes  were  strongly  fas- 
cinated by  Ada's  charms,  which  he  had  never  seen  to 
such  advantage  before.  Mr.  Hay  ward  was  more  adroit 
in  his  flattering  attentions,  however,  and  Marjorie 
could  not  help  seeing  with  vexation  that  they  had  al- 
ready somewhat  turned  Ada's  silly  little  head.     There 


■'i'vl 

,  in 


11 


>'  ■ 


236 


A    NEW    YEAR  S    PARTY. 


were  several  very  pretty  girls  there,  however,  "grown- 
up young  Ijulie.s,"  who  luitiirally  divided  the  young 
Englishuian's  attention  —  not  altogether  to  Ada's 
satisfaction. 

There  was  a  good  deal  of  music,  both  vocal  and  in- 
strumental, some  of  it  very  good.  There  was  some 
brilliant  execution  on  the  piano  ;  but  Marjorie  specially 
enjoyed  a  charming  violin  solo,  which  seemed  almost 
to  speak  the  voice  of  human  emotion  and  longing  and 
aspiration,  and  called  up  to  her  mind  some  of  the  grand 
scenes  she  had  seen  when  with  her  father  among  the 
hills  the  previous  summer.  Several  ladies  sang,  most 
of  the  songs  being  pretty  trifles  of  the  day.  One 
young  lady  sang,  with  great  vivacity  and  animation, 
some  of  the  i)retty  French  Canadian  songs.  As  she 
sang  them  in  French,  Marjorie  could  not  catch  many 
of  the  words ;  but  Alan  told  her  that  the  air  which  she 
liked  best  was  called,  "  A  la  Claire  Fontaine,''^  and 
was  a  great  favorite  among  the  French  Canadians. 
The  words,  he  said,  were  great  nonsense ;  but  he  and 
Marion  would  sing  them  to  her  some  evening  at  home, 
and  she  could  see  them  for  herself.  Marion  sang  sev- 
eral songs,  most  of  them  being  Miss  Proctor's  words 
and  great  favorites  with  Marjorie,  who  had  heard  them 
already.  One  little  song,  however,  which  she  sang 
towards  the  close  of  the  evening,  was  new  to  Marjorie, 
and  both  the  words  and  air  delighted  her.  It  ran 
thus  : 


A   NEW    YEAU  S    PARTY. 


237 


"  A  little  flower  >o  lonely  grew, 

So  lowly  \\i\,s  it  left, 
That  heaven  seemed  like  an  eye  of  blue 

Above  its  rocky  cleft. 


I 


"  What  could  the  little  flower  do 
In  such  a  lonesome  place, 

But  strive  lo  reach  that  eye  of  blue, 
And  climb  to  kiss  heaven's  face  ? 


"  There's  no  lot  so  lone  and  low, 
But  strenjijth  will  still  be  given 

From  lowliest  spot  on  earth  to  grow 
The  straighter  up  to  heaven." 


To  Marjorie  it  seemed  as  if  liiis  sonjjf  belonged  to 
the  same  order  as  her  story  of  the  Northern  Lights, 
and  the  pictures  of  lovely  Christian  heroism  with  which 
Professor  Duncan's  narratives  had  been  filling  her 
mind.  She  was  thinking  of  Pt;re  Le  Jeune  and  his 
steadfast  faith  and  hope  among  the  wretched  heathen 
savages,  when  she  heard  Mr.  I  lay  ward's  languid  tone 
addressing  some  one  near  him : 

"  Miss  Ramsay  has  rather  a  nice  voice  ;  it's  a  pity 
she  wastes  it  on  namby-pamby  things  like  that." 

"  I  can't  agree  with  you,"  said  the  young  lady  to 
whom  he  was  talking.     "  I  think  it's  a  lovely  song." 

"  O,  well !  that's  a  matter  of  taste ;  but  it's  great 
nonsense  all  the  same." 

"I  must  say  I  don't  see  where  the  nonsense  is," 


■^M! 


•.I'll 


I  : 


238 


A    NEW    YEAR  S    PARTY. 


said  a  young  man  beside  them,  whose  pleasant,  intelli- 
gent face  Marjorie  had  noticed  before,  when  she  had 
been  told  by  Gerald  that  he  was  studying  for  the 
Church.  "  The  man  who  wrote  it,  Gerald  Massey, 
wasn't  given  to  nonsense,  at  any  rate." 

"  Oh  I  Gerald  Massey  !  a  sort  of  radical  socialist, 
isn't  he  ?  " 

"  Well,  I  don't  know  much  about  his  opinions,"  said 
the  other,  "  but  I  do  know  that  he  has  the  true  spirit 
of  Christianity  in  him,  and  that  song  preaches  a  real 
spiritual  truth." 

"  Oh !  there  you  get  beyond  me,"  said  Hayward, 
sneeringly.  "  I  thought  that  what  you  called  spiritual 
truths  were  'played  out'  now;  that  there  wasn't  any 
room  for  them  any  more.  In  fact,  I  don't  know  what 
'  spiritual '  means,  nor  I  think  do  half  the  people  that 
use  the  word !  It's  just  a  phrase  that  may  mean  any 
thing  or  nothing." 

"  Yes,"  replied  the  other  young  man  gravely,  "  it 
does  mean  very  different  things  to  different  people  ! 
I  find,  in  the  highest  authority  on  such  points,  that  no 
one  can  understand  what  '  spiritual '  means,  unless  he 
is  willing  to  have  his  eyes  opened  from  above." 

Hayward  shrugged  his  shoulders.  "You  must  ex- 
cuse me,"  he  said ;  "  I  for  one  have  no  desire  to  pene- 
trate into  such  profound  mysteries.  The  world  I  do 
know  is  a  very  good  world,  and  it's  enough  for  me." 

And  then  he  suggested  to  his  companion  that  she 


A    NEW    YEARS   TAKTY. 


239 


Gerald  had  been  standing  near  while  this  little 
cussion   had    been    going'  on. 


should  have  some  refreshments,  but  she  declined,  having 
had  some  already. 

"  If  you'll  excuse  me  then,  I  think  I'll  have  some 
myself,"  he  said,  and  passed  on. 

"  Poor  fellow  I  what  a  proof  he  is  of  the  very 
truths  he  rejects,  if  he  could  only  see  it,"  remarked 
the  other  young  man  to  his  companion,  as  they  looked 
after  him.  And  then  he  added,  '■•  It\s  not  right  to 
joke  about  such  matters,  but  one  can  hardly  help  feel- 
ing that  his  insensibility  to  spiritual  influences  is  partly 
due  to  his  familiarity  with  a  veiy  different  kind  of 
spirit !  " 

dis- 
Ile,  too,  looked  after 
Hayward,  as  he  disa})peared,  and  observed  to  Mar- 
jorie  : 

"  I  just  detest  that  conceited  Englishman  !  I  wish 
he  had  something  better  to  do  than  loaf  about  the 
world  to  kill  time !  Dick  hasn't  been  the  same  fellow 
since  he's  been  here,  and  he  seems  to  want  to  lead  him 
into  harm's  way.  And  he  flatters  my  mother  and  Ada 
into  thinkinii  that  there's  nobodv  like  liim !  But 
come,  Marjorie,"  he  added,  "■  you  haven't  had  any 
supper  yet.     Come  in  and  ha\e  some  now." 

They  went  on  into  the  dining-room,  where  game, 
jellies  and  ices  were  temptingly  laid  out,  with  an 
abundance,  also,  of  wine  and  spirits.  When  he  had 
helped  Marjorie,  Gerald  looked  about  him,  and  pres- 


■■i^i! 


t  .;  .)  1 


■Mi 


240 


A    NEW    YEAR  S    PARTY. 


ently  cauglit  sight  of  his  brother  standing  with  Mr. 
Hayvvard,  by  the  sideboard,  both  helping  themselves 
liberally  to  champagne. 

"  There,  isn't  that  too  bad !  "  exclaimed  Gerald,  in 
intense  vexation.  "  Dick  will  make  a  fool  of  himself 
before  he  knows  it,  if  he  goes  on  like  that.  I  must 
go  and  stop  him  I     I  know  what  I'll  do  I  " 

And  going  up  to  his  brother,  whose  flushed  face 
showed  already  that  he  had  had  considerably  more  than 
was  good  for  him,  he  whispered  a  few  words  into  his 
ear.  Dick  immediately  left  his  companion  and  went 
out  of  the  room,  returning  after  a  few  mhiutes'  absence 
with  Marion,  who  looked  a  little  uncomfortable  as  she 
noticed  his  excited  manner,  but  sat  down  beside  Mar- 
jorie,  while  he  went  for  an  ice  for  her. 

"  I  hope  you'll  forgive  me,  Miss  Ramsay,"  said 
Gerald  frankly.  ''  T  know  you're  so  good  you  won't 
mind.  I  didn't  know  how  to  get  him  away  from  Hay- 
ward  there,"  he  said,  glancing  to  where  the  young 
Englishman  still  stood ;  "  so  I  told  him  1  thought  you 
hadn't  had  any  supper  yet.  And  then  he  went  off  at 
once.     For  you  know  he  thinks  ever  so  much  of  you." 

Marion  smiled  comprehendingly,  with  ready  sym- 
pathy for  Gerald.  "  I'll  try  to  keep  him  from  going 
back  there  again,"  she  said,  as  Dick  returned.  And 
she  did  so,  disinterestedly  enough  ;  for  she  did  not  care 
in  the  least  for  Dick's  society,  and  she  had  a  particular 
abhorrence  of  even  the  most  distant  approach  to  in- 


A   NEW    YEAR  S    PARTY. 


241 


toxication.  Her  detestation  of  the  habit,  and  her  pity 
for  young  West  combined  to  make  her  proportionately 
indignant  when  Ahin  remarked,  on  the  way  home,  that 
he  thought  champagne  "  a  first-class  institution." 

"  A  first-class  institution  for  ruining  young  men," 
replied  Marion  warmly  ;  proceeding  forthwith  to  give 
Alan  a  forcible  temperance  lecture,  a  point  on  which 
she  had  very  decided  views,  and  in  which  she  was 
warmly  re-enforced  by  Marjorie,  who  perhaps  pro- 
duced most  effect  by  describing  the  evident  distress  of 
Gerald  at  his  brother's  weakness,  and  the  insidious  in- 
fluence of  the  tempter  who  added  double  force  to  the 
temptation. 

"  Well,  it  is  too  bad,"  he  said.  "  And  Gerald's 
just  as  steady  as  a  boy  could  be,  though  he  does  take 
his  glass  of  wine  too,  with  the  rest.  But  then  he  has 
Dick's  example  b  tore  his  eyes,  and  that  makes  him 
careful.  Anyhow,  I  can  get  on  very  well  without 
champagne,  and  I'm  not  likely  to  get  much  of  it!  So 
you  needn't  worry,  Marion." 


'  t 


CHAPTER   XIII. 


TREASURES    OF   THE    SNOW    AND    ICE. 


:.j  ^^ 


ii  »> 


m 


I 


The  Christinas  holidays  were  fairly  over,  and  Mar- 
jorie  got  settled  down  to  school  work  again,  after  the 
long  break.  Ada  and  she  went  together,  the  first 
morning,  as  Marion  went  only  at  a  later  hour  for  cer- 
tain classes.  Ada  introduced  Marjorie  to  her  special 
friends,  and  it  was  not  long  before  she  felt  quite  at 
home  among  her  new  companions.  Most  of  them  were 
bright,  clever  girls  who  liked  to  study,  and  Marjorie 
was  pleased  to  find  that  she  could  take  a  fairly  good 
place  in  her  classes,  though  these  included  some  girls 
a  year  or  two  older  than  herself.  In  German  she 
found  herself  rather  before  her  companions,  though  the 
Montreal  girls  had  naturally  the  advantage  in  French, 
having  plenty  of  opportunity  for  practicing  speaking 
it,  if  they  were  so  disposed.  Even  Ada  could  do  a 
little  shopping  in  it,  when  necessary. 

Marjorie  had  petitioned  for  leave  to  add  drawing  to 
her  other  studies,  having  taken  a  fancy  to  it  from  see- 
ing her  cousin  paint ;  and  her  father  had  willingly 

242 


TREASURES    OF    THE    SNOW    AND   ICE. 


243 


consented,  only  exhorting  her  to  begin  at  the  beginning, 
and  be  thorough  as  far  as  she  went.  The  hour  at  the 
drawing-class  soon  became  one  of  the  pleasantest  in 
the  day.  It  was  a  great  pleasure,  also,  to  go  with 
some  of  her  cousins,  or  with  Ada,  to  see  the  pictures 
in  the  little  Art  Gallery,  on  a  fine  afternoon,  when  the 
light  was  good  enough  to  show  them  to  advantage. 
Both  Dr.  Ramsay  and  Mrs.  West  had  season  tickets, 
and  Marjorie  spent  a  morning  there  before  the  holidays 
were  over,  enjoying  the  pictures  all  the  more  because 
there  were  not  so  many  to  look  at  as  there  had  been  in 
other  art  exhibitions  which  her  father  had  taken  her 
to  see  in  New  York.  Ada,  who  had  never  had  anv 
stimulus  to  take  an  interest  in  such  things  before,  began 
now  to  try  to  see  what  made  Marjorie  enjoy  them  so 
much,  and  even  her  lessons  grew  somewhat  more  in- 
teresting to  her  from  the  effect  of  Marjorie's  zeal  and 
industry.  Marjorie  herself  was  trying  her  best  to 
overcome  her  natural  tendency  to  be  "  desultory," 
against  which  her  father  had  warned  her,  and  she  was 
succeeding  tolerably  well.  He  had  counseled  her  to  be 
very  sparing  in  her  reading  of  story  books  —  a  great 
temptation  to  her. 

.  She  resolutely  abstained,  therefore,  from  even  look- 
ing into  one,  except  on  Saturdays,  when  she  allowed 
herself  the  treat  for  an  hour  or  two  over  one  of  Sir 
Walter  Scott's  novels,  which  were  all  in  Dr.  Ramsay's 
book-shelves,  and  of  which  she  had  as  yet  read  only 


■i 


*'  ■,  J  \ 


'i! 


i 


244 


TREASURES    OF    THE    SNOW    AND    ICE. 


•I". 


\  1 


^4ill 


one  or  two ;  not  nearly  so  many  as  her  cousin  Millie 
had  already  devoured. 

Millie  and  she  had  long  talks  about  them,  when 
they  went  on  their  regular  Saturday  afternoon  excur- 
sions, sometimes  on  a  snow-shoe  tramp  to  the  house  of 
a  friend  two  or  three  miles  off,  at  the  other  side  of  the 
mountain,  and  sometimes  to  see  the  new  toboggan 
slides  which  were  being  prepared  for  "  grand  openings  " 
at  the  Carnival.  And  one  fine  Saturday  afternoon 
Alan,  who  had  a  particular  friend  in  the  club  which 
owned  the  "  Lansdowne  Slide,"  arranged  to  take  the 
girls  down  that  one  on  a  "  trial "  afternoon,  when  only 
the  members  of  the  club  and  their  friends  were  per- 
mitted to  be  present.  It  was  at  the  east  end  of  Sher- 
brooke  Street,  just  to  the  right  of  the  mountain  slope, 
on  an  open  incline,  where,  as  Alan  told  her,  they  played 
"  golf  "  in  summer  and  autumn.  And  as  Marjorie  did 
not  know  what  "  golf  "  was,  he  tried  to  explain  this 
old  Scotch  version  of  "  hockey  "  or  "  shinty,"  at  which 
he  knew  that  his  father  and  hers  had  often  played 
when  they  were  Edinburgh  students. 

As  they  slowly  mounted  the  slope  to  the  wooden 
platform  and  "  send  off,"  Ada  and  Millie  pointed  out 
the  steep  flight  of  wooden  steps  that  ran  up  the 
mountain  close  by. 

'•  It's  too  slippery  to  go  up  now,  you  know,"  said 
Millie ;  "  but  in  summer  I  often  go  up,  and  when  you 
get  to  the  top  it's  splendid  I  " 


n<n 


TREASURES    OF    THE    SNOW    AND    ICE. 


245 


"  I'm  going  to  do  something  nicer  than  that,  when 
summer  comes,"  said  Ada.  "  You  know,  Marjorie,  I 
took  some  riding  lessons  hist  fall,  and  my  uncle  in  the 
country  is  going  to  have  a  pony  broken  in  for  me,  and 
I'm  going  to  ride  on  the  mountain  with  Gerald.  Can 
you  ride  ?  For  if  you  can  I'll  lend  you  my  pony  some 
day  for  a  ride." 

Marjorie 's  eyes  sparkled  at  the  thought.  She  had 
been  a  few  times  on  horseback  when  among  the  hills 
with  her  father,  and  she  thought  it  the  most  delightful 
exercise  in  the  world,  and  the  greatest  pleasure. 

"  Wait  till  you've  been  down  the  toboggan  slide, 
Marjorie,"  said  Alan.     "  Riding's  nothing  to  that !  " 

But  when  they  had  mounted  the  wooden  steps  which 
led  up  to  the  high  platform  from  which  they  were  to 
begin  their  descent  —  Alan  carrying  the  light  toboggan 
—  and  when  Marjorie  looked  down  the  steep,  slippery, 
inclined  plane,  she  thought  it  rather  a  fearful  pleasure  ; 
and  felt  as  if.  despite  her  experience  on  the  children's 
slide,  she  had  hardly  nerve  enough  to  trust  herself  to 
the  giddy  descent.  She  wanted  to  try,  but  all  the  en- 
couragement her  companions  could  give,  could  not 
overcome  the  involuntary  reluctance  that  she  felt  to 
take  the  final  step  of  seating  herself  on  the  toboggan 
wheiT  poised  on  the  edge  of  the  slippery  descent.  Alan 
assured  her  that  it  was  particularly  safe,  as  there  were 
so  few  toboggans  there,  and  no  one  was  immediately 
following.     But  she  still  shrank  back  and  declared  that 


I:- 
ill  I 

m 


Mr 


:0 


1^* 


m 


Hi: 


246 


TREASURES    OF   THK    SNOW    AND    ICE. 


M 
■<i 


they  would  have  to  go  (h)wn  without  her,  the  first  time, 
at  least.  So  Ada  and  Millie  arranged  themselves ; 
Ada  holding  tight  to  the  sides  of  the  toboggan,  Millie 
grasping  her  waist  as  tightly ;  Alan  threw  himself  on 
it  behind  them,  putting  out  one  foot  to  steer,  and  away 
they  went.  Marjorie  held  her  breath  for  a  moment, 
but  before  she  had  caught  it  again,  they  were  at  the 
foot  of  the  "  send  off,"  and  gliding  down  the  white 
hill  below  with  a  speed  that  did  look  exhilarating; 
taking  them  down  to  the  foot  of  the  long  slide  in  about 
a  minute. 

It  was  fascinating  enough,  and  by  the  time  that  the 
others  had  made  their  toilsome  way  up  again,  she  had 
made  up  her  mind  to  hesitate  no  longer,  but  sit  down 
in  the  toboggan  without  thinking  about  it.  There  was 
room  enough  for  them  all,  and  they  put  her  between 
the  other  two  girls  so  that  she  might  feel  safer.  She 
held  Ada  with  a  desperate  grip,  and  half-shut  her  eyes 
as  they  shot  off.  But  in  a  moment  they  were  at  the 
foot  of  the  giddy  plane,  and  then  she  could  really  enjoy 
the  swift  gliding  over  the  hard,  smooth  snow ;  then 
came  a  second  leap  down  a  chute,  or  little  sudden 
descent  in  the  snow,  and  then  an  easy  progress,  slow- 
ing gradually  as  they  reached  the  level  ground,  when 
they  all  scrambled  to  their  feet,  laughing  for  glee  over 
the  successful  descent.  They  went  down  two  or  three 
times  more,  walking  nearly  half  a  mile  up  each  time  ; 
and  Marjorie  agreed,  as  they  walked  home,  glowing 


TREASURES    OF   THE    SNOW    AND    ICE. 


247 


with  exercise,  that,  after  all,  the  pleasure  of  toboggan- 
ing had  scarcely  been  overrated. 

"  You  see  the  benefit  of  a  good  example,  Marjorie," 
said  Alan.  ^^  If  you  hadn't  had  our  heroic  example 
first,  you  wouldn't  have  got  your  own  courage  up  I  " 

"Yes,"  observed  Millie,  ''and  that's  one  reason  why 
Professor  Duncan  tells  us  all  those  stories." 

"  Why,"  said  Ada,  ''  he  doesn't  want  us  all  to  go  to 
live  among  the  Indians,  even  if  there  were  any  wild 
ones  any  more?  " 

"  No,'i  said  Alan,  laughing  ;  "  but  I  suppose  we 
shall  all  have  lots  of  disagreeable  things  to  do  ;  and  he 
thinks  such  examples  will  help  to  nuike  us  brave.  I 
daresay  I  shall  have  plenty  of  such  experiences  if 
I  am  an  engineer,  as  I  want  to  be." 

But  Ada  was  evidently  pretty  tired,  and  Alan  asked 
her  to  sit  down  on  the  toboggan,  so  that  he  might  draw 
her  home.  And  when  they  had  left  her  there,  the 
other  three  took  their  way,  in  the  rosy  winter  sunset, 
down  to  Dominion  Square,  growing  daily  a  center  of 
increasing  interest,  now  that  the  stately  ice-palace  was 
rising  day  by  day  into  its  fine  pro})ortions  and  sparkling 
ethereal  beauty.  It  was  being  hurried  on  now,  so  as 
to  be  completed  by  the  time  fixed  for  the  Carnival ; 
and  there  were  few  days  when  Marjorie,  with  one  or 
other  of  her  cousins,  did  not  manage  to  go  to  inspect 
its  progress.  It  was  built  on  the  model  of  a  Norman 
castle,  and  its  towers,  bastions,  battlements  and  ''donjon 


(■ 


Ui 


ill 


;   11 


^t1 


■k 


248 


TREASURES   OF   THE    SNOW    AND   ICE. 


keep  "  began  to  be  defined  with  some  distinctness.  It 
was  built  of  solid  blocks  of  ice  about  three  feet  long, 
a  foot  in  height,  and  eighteen  inches  in  thickness,  all 
the  layers  being  solidly  frozen  together. 

When  the  l)riglit  winter  sunshine  enfolded  and  pene- 
trated the  crystal  mass,  seen  against  tlu;  clear  blue  sky, 
it  gleamed  and  sparkled  in  a  thousand  ex(piisite  grada- 
tions of  liglit  and  shade,  from  softest  ethereal  tints 
of  gray  to  the  diamond  glitter  of  the  icicle  point. 
This  afternoon  the  rosy  glow  of  the  sunset  seemed  to 
give  it  the  delicate  tints  of  mother-of-pearl. 

To  Marjorie,  the  silent  uprising  of  this  wonderful 
palace  without  the  sound  of  hammer  or  axe,  seemed 
to  be  an  embodied  fairy  tale  ;  one  of  the  "  fairy  tales 
of  science  "  spoken  of  in  the  lines  her  father  had 
taught  her  from  "  Locksley  Hall."  She  only  wished 
he  could  see  it,  as  it  grew  in  beauty  ;  and  she  did  her 
best  to  give  him  some  idea  of  it,  by  describing  it  in 
her  letters.  And  there  were  other  ice  wonders,  too,  to 
describe.  Down  in  the  more  strictly  French  portion 
of  the  city  there  were  trophies  rising,  which,  if  less 
remarkable  for  stately  beauty,  were  just  as  wonderful 
in  their  way.  On  the  Champ  de  Mars,  close  to  the 
old  court  house  and  beautiful  new  Hotel  de  Ville, 
there  was  a  great  round  tower  rising  tier  upon  tier  of 
enormous  courses  of  ice  blocks.  It  was,  according  to 
Alan,  "  for  all  the  world  like  a  giant  wedding-cake 
constructed  on  the  model  of  the  Tower  of  Babel."     It 


TREASUUKS    OF    TlIK    KNOW    AND   ICE. 


249 


I 


was  called  a  rondora^  and  Professor  Duncan  told  them 
that  the  idea  came  from  Kussia,  and  was  a  hit  of  i)ar- 
baric  oriental  archit'3ctuie,  making  a  curious  eontr.ast 
witli  the  Norman  ice  castle  which  by  rights  should  have 
belonii'ed  to  the  French. 

Then  on  the  Place  d'Armes,  associated  with  the 
feat  of  the  French  Horatius  —  as  Professor  Duncan 
called  Maisonneuve  —  there  was  growing  u}),  under  a 
canvas  covering,  a  great  ice  lion,  wliicli  no  one  was  to 
see  till  it  was  completely  finislunl  and  formally  unveiled, 
as  a  part  of  the  Carnival  celebration. 

As  the  time  drew  close,  the  city  began  to  j)ut  on 
more  and  more  of  a  holiday  aspect,  and  multitudes  of 
strangers  arrived  daily.  Eviu-y  time  Marjorie  went 
towards  Notre  Dame  Street  or  across  Dominion  Square, 
she  was  sure  to  see  sleighs  containing  newly-arrived 
travelers  from  east  or  west,  north  or  south.  Numbers 
of  Americans,  especially,  poured  into  the  city  every 
day,  and  the  papers  soon  numbered  the  visitors  by 
thousands.  The  Windsor  was  a  gay  and  busy  scene, 
with  the  handsomely  caparisoned  sleighs  constantly 
dashing  up  to  the  portal,  or  from  it,  full  of  merry 
groups  of  sightseers.  The  ice-palace  was  fast  receiv- 
ing its  finishing  touches.  The  clear  crystal  battle- 
ments and  turrets,  with  their  machicolated  edges,  now 
Foarkled  with  dazzling  luster  in  the  sunlight.  Flags 
f  >ated  from  the  round  towers  at  the  entrance,  and 
vithin  the  workmen  were  busy  fitting  up  the  rooms  on 


;  tK 


■m 


250 


TREASURES   OF   THE   SNOW   AND   ICE. 


each  side  of  the  main  entrance ;  rooms  which,  how- 
ever, were  not  to  contain  anything  more  poetical  than 
a  coffee-stand  on  the  one  side,  ai: /*  "  eTohnston's  Fhiid 
Beef  "  on  the  other,  both  of  which  Dv.  Kamsay  warmly 
approved  of,  as  being  just  the  thing  needed  in  such  a 
place  and  in  such  weather.  For  the  cold  was  certainly 
growing  keener  every  day.  It  seemed  as  if  the  ice- 
palace  were  brewing  cold  weather,  and  within  its  solid 
walls  one  might  get  a  very  fair  idea  of  what  Arctic 
cold  might  be  like. 

One  night,  just  before  the  commencement  of  the 
Carnival,  Alan  came  in,  saying  that  they  were  lighting 
up  the  palace  for  the  first  time  ..itli  the  electric  lights. 
The  girls,  he  said,  must  come  at  once  to  see  it.  "  «Tack 
and  Jill "  were  off  before  Marion  and  Marjorie  could 
get  on  their  wraps  ;  and  they  and  Alan  soon  followed 
tlirough  the  keen,  cold,  January  night,  lighted  by  a 
pale  but  grov/ing  moon.  But  the  moonlight  seemed 
to  fade  away  when  they  came  in  full  view  of  the  palace, 
and  they  exclaimed  with  delight  as  the  wonderful  fairy 
visioxi  met  their  eyes.  It  was  such  a  sight  as  is  rarely 
seen  ;  a  sight  to  haunt  one's  imagination  for  a  lifetime. 
It  seemed  a  veritable  palace  of  light,  a  fairy  tale  mate- 
rialized. For  bastions,  towers  and  battlements  seemed 
to  throb  and  sparkle  throughout,  with  a  clear,  pure  and 
living  light,  like  the  fair,  tremulous  shimmer  of  motb*^r- 
of -pearl ;  the  dentated  outlines  of  turrets  and  battle- 
ments  glittering,    sharply   deiined    against   even   the 


TREASURES    OF    THE    SNOW   AND   ICE. 


251 


moonlight  sky.  Every  crystal  cube  of  its  massive 
courses  glittered  with  the  white,  lambent  light ;  and 
yet,  as  they  gazed,  they  could  hardly  believe  that  it 
was  not  a  dream  or  an  illusion. 

"  Why,  Marjorie  !  this  must  be  the  work  of  your  kind 
Light-spirit,  taking  pity  on  our  Northern  darkness." 

Marjorie  started  from  her  trance  of  delight,  and 
turned  smilingly  to  greet  Professor  Duncan,  who  had 
been  attracted,  like  themselves,  by  the  wonderful  and 
beautiful  sight.  With  him  was  the  clergyman  whose 
church  he  and  Dr.  Ramsay  attended. 

"  And  does  Miss  Fleming  keep  a  familiar  spirit  of 
her  own  then  ?  "  asked  the  minister  playfully. 

Professor  Duncan  explained,  and  gave  the  substance 
of  the  little  story  of  the  Northern  Lights  in  a  few 
words.  He  seldom  forgot  anything  that  struck  his 
fancy,  which  was  one  reason  why  his  conversation  was 
so  entertaining  to  young  and  old. 

"  It's  a  pretty  fancy,"  he  said,  "  and  this  made  me 
think  of  it  at  once.  One  beautiful  thing  is  apt  to 
suggest  another,  and  this  is  'a  thing  of  beauty,'  though 
it  can  hardly  be  '  a  joy  forever,'  even  in  this  Northern 
clime  !  But  seriously,  you  know,  I  suppose  that  the 
Northern  Lights  are  essentially  the  same  in  nature 
with  the  light  that  is  sparkling  through  that  luminous 
crystal  pile.  And,  by  the  way,  do  you  know  what  is 
the  supposed  explanation  of  the  phenomenon  of  the 
Aurora  Borealis,  scientifically  considered  ?  " 


7 


If: 


m 


252     TREASURES  OF  THE  SNOW  AND  ICE. 

None  of  the  young  people  had  ever  heard  it,  and 
Marjorie  and  Millie  were  eager  to  know. 

"  Well,  you  must  know,  the  real  nature  of  electricity 
is  a  mystery.  No  one  knows  more  than  that  it  acts 
in  certain  ways,  and  is  a  part  of  that  great  and  omni- 
present energy  which  I  of  course  regard  as  simply  one 
manifestation  of  what  Wordsworth  calls  the  — 


"  '  Motion  and  tlio  spirit  that  impels 
All  thinking  things,  all  ol)jects  of  all  thought, 
And  rolls  through  all  things.' 

The  phenomena  of  electricity,  you  know,  are  caused 
by  the  meeting  of  two  opposite  states  of  the  electric 
fluid,  as  it  is  called,  positive  and  negative  electricity  ; 
thoiigli  just  wliy,  and  under  what  conditions  these  two 
opposite  sorts  are  developed,  science  as  yet  refuses  to 
say.  Now,  as  of  course  you  know,  electricity  is  readily 
excited  by  friction ;  and  different  sorts  of  friction,  or 
friction  under  different  circumstances,  will  produce  dif- 
ferent sorts  of  electricity.  Now  it  is  supposed  that 
the  friction  of  the  earth's  atmosphere  against  the  earth, 
as  both  are  in  motion,  develops  electricity,  just  as  does 
the  rubbing  of  glass  with  a  piece  of  silk.  And  as  the 
earth's  motion  is  most  rapid  at  the  equator,  and  slow- 
est at  the  poles,  positive  electricity  is  excited  in  the 
atmospliere  of  the  tropic  and  temperate  zones,  while 
at  the  poles  it  is  negative.  And  as  wherever  there  is 
an  interchange  between  these  two  we  have  electrical 


y^ 


TREASURES   OF   THE   SNOW   AND   ICE. 


253 


manifestations,  it  is  supposed  that  this  interchange  in 
the  North,  in  certain  states  of  the  atmosphere,  produ- 
ces the  Northern  Lights,  the  Aurora  being  brightest 
where  the  interchange  is  most  active.  This  is  only 
hypothesis,  but  it  affords  a  reasonably  probable  ex- 
planation." 

"  Thank  you,  Professor,"  said  the  minister.  "  I 
think  you  have  made  it  quite  clear,  and  it's  very  inter- 
esting to  me ;  I  never  heard  it  before." 

"  And  so,  you  see,  out  of  the  meeting  of  these  two 
intrinsically  dark  and  silent  forces,  in  the  regions  of 
cold  and  darkness,  God  evolves  light." 

"Just  as  easily  as  He  did  of  old,"  observed  the 
minister,  "  when  he  said  '  Let  light  be,'  and  light 
was ! " 

"  And  now,"  continued  Professor  Duncan,  "  man, 
by  availing  himself  of  these  laws,  can  draw  this  same 
powerful,  invisible  form  of  Energy  into  the  service  of 
humanity,  and  in  such  beautiful  ways  as  we  see  here, 
yet  only  as  he  follows  its  laws  and  keeps  up  the 
connection  with  the  invisible  power." 

"  I  declare,  my  dear  professor,  you  are  outlining 
for  me  a  capital  sermon  !  You  will  hear  it  again  one 
of  these  days.  Talk  of  sermons  in  stones,  you  have 
struck  sparks  of  light  out  of  ice !  I  think  I  shall  set 
my  Bible-class  to  studying  all  the  beautiful  texts  about 
light." 

"  It  would  be  a  most  interesting  study,''  said  the 


■m 


m 


fi 


■  1  -J 


II' 


ill 

m 


I 


254 


TREASURES   OF    THE    S^OW    AND    ICE. 


II 


■  i /r? 


professor.  "  You  young  folks  had  better  try  it,  too. 
That  parable  of  light  and  darkness  runs  right  through 
the  Bible." 

Marjorie  thought  it  would  be  a  very  good  thing  to 
do,  and  the  following  Sunday,  after  dinner,  she  and 
Marion  took  their  Bibles  and  began  their  search. 
They  were  astonished  at  the  number  of  suggestive 
texts  they  found,  beginning  with  Genesis  and  ending 
with  Revelation.  There  was  the  "  burning  bush,"  the 
"•  pillar  of  liglit,"  the  prophetic  visions,  the  "  great 
light  seen  by  the  shepherds,"  and  the  light  Paul  saw  in 
going  to  Damascus  ;  besides  the  imagery  of  Revela- 
tion, and  innumerable  metaphorical  references  to  light 
and  darkness.  The  parable  did,  as  tlie  professor  said, 
run  right  through  the  whole  Bible,  quite  as  much  as 
did  that  other  one  of  life  and  death,  and  indeed,  as 
Dr.  Ramsay  remarked,  the  two  were  significantly 
interchangeable. 

When  the  professor  came  in  on  Sunday  evening, 
each  of  the  girls  had  a  long  list  to  show  him  of  the 
passages  that  had  most  struck  them.  Each  of  them, 
too,  had  chosen  a  favorite  text.  Millie's  was,  "  In 
Him  is  light,  and  no  darkness  at  all."  Marjorie  still 
adhered  to  her  old  favorite,  "  Ihe  light  shineth  in 
darkness."  And  Marion  tliought  that  the  most  beau- 
tiful of  all  was  in  the  description  of  the  heavenly  city, 
"  Jerusalem  the  Golden." 

"  And  the  city  had  no  need  of  the  sun,  neither  of 


TREASURES    OF   THE    SNOW    AND    ICE. 


255 


the  moon,  to  shine  in  it ;  for  the  glory  of  God  did 
lighten  it,  and  the  Lamb  is  the  light  thereof." 

"  Yes,"  said  the  professor,  '*  that  is  a  grand  hope. 
You  see,  Marjorie,  the  light  will  not  always  shine  in 
darkness,  and  your  Northern  Lights  won't  always  be 
needed,  any  more  than  the  sun  or  the  moon." 

•'  No,"  said  Marjorie,  as  if  half-reluctant  to  admit  it. 

"  But  the  Northern  Lights  won't  be  forgotten,  nor 
their  lonely  labor  of  love.  '  I  know  thy  works  '  is 
the  message  to  each  of  the  working  cliurches.  And 
He  does  not  forget !  There  is  another  text  that  1  like 
to  remember  when  thinking  of  the  glory  of  the  future : 
'  They  that  be  wise  shall  shine  as  the  brightness  of 
the  firnuiment,  and  they  that  turn  many  to  righteous- 
ness as  the  stars  forever  and  ever.'  " 


til- 


m\ 


|||i 


Viw 


CHAPTER   XTV. 


CARNIVAL    GLORIEl 


» ;. 


Afi'ER  a  Sunday  which  was  marked  by  a  quietness 
that  seemed  unaffet^ted  by  the  presence  of  so  many 
strangers  and  the  prospect  of  so  many  exciting  novel- 
ties, the  celebration  of  the  Carnival  began.  Alan 
who  was  the  most  enthusiastic  member  of  the  house- 
hold in  regard  to  the  diversions  of  the  week,  kept  the 
rest  duly  informed  beforehand,  and  planned  with 
careful  calculation  how  Marjorie,  in  particular,  could 
manage  to  see  the  largest  share  of  all  that  was  going 
on.  Dr.  Kamsay,  of  course,  was  too  busy  a  man  for 
much  sightseeing,  and  carnivals  were  no  novelty  to 
either  him  or  Mrs.  Kamsay.  And  as  Alan  was  a 
rather  youthful  escort  for  his  sisters  and  cousin,  much 
satisfaction  was  expressed  when  Professor  Duncan 
accepted  sundry  hints  thrown  out  by  Marjorie  and 
Millie,  and  placed  liimself  at  the  disposal  of  the  party, 
for  the  four  great  evenings  of  the  Carnival. 

Monday  evening  had  two  events  on  the  programme 
—  the  opening  of   the    new    Tuque   Bleue   toboggan 

256 


CARNIVAL   GLORIES. 


257 


slide,  and  the  unveiling  of  the  colossal  ice  lion.  As 
this  new  slide  was  the  one  which,  from  its  convenient 
nearness,  the  young  liamsays  meant  to  frequent,  Alan, 
Jack  and  Millie  were  very  anxious  to  be  there  at  the 
opening ;  so  it  was  arranged  that  they  should  go  there 
first,  staying  just  long  enough  for  Alan  to  take  them 
down  the  slide  once  or  twice,  and  then  walk  down  to 
the  Place  iV Armes. 

The  Tuque  Bleue  slide  was  a  purely  artificial  one, 
the  tall  wooden  platform  being  erected  in  a  large 
open  field,  stretching  from  St.  Catherine  Street  to 
Sherbrooke  Street,  thus  giving  sufficient  space  for  the 
toboggans  to  gradually  come  to  a  stop.  The  electric 
light  made  the  gay  scene  as  light  as  day  ;  a  huge  bon- 
fire close  by  threw  its  ruddy  glow  athwart  the  white 
light,  and  black  shadows  and  Chinese  lanterns  and 
soaring  rockets  added  to  the  picturesque  effect.  The 
inclined  plane  from  the  platform,  about  forty  feet 
high,  was  divided  into  five  spaces  by  raised  lines,  so 
that  five  toboggans  could  come  down  abreast  without 
any  risk  of  collision.  As  soon  as  the  slide  was 
declared  open,  a  number  of  toboggans  waiting  at  the 
top  with  their  merry  crews,  shot  down  with  lightning- 
speed,  and  were  in  a  few  moments  at  the  end  of  the 
course — their  occupants  quickly  scrambling  out  of 
the  way  of  those  that  were  following  as  fast  as  safety 
permitted.  Marjorie  declined  to  be  enticed  to  tlie 
platform  for  that  evening,  preferring  to  stand  beside 


i 


j« 


<i%, 
1  •' ' 


^ISli  ii 


! 


258 


CARNIVAL  GLORIES. 


i 


ii 


Professor  Duncan  and  watch  the  animated  scene. 
And  indeed  she  had  never  even  dreamed  of  anything 
like  it  before.  The  long  white  expanse  of  snow, 
bright  with  the  variegated  lights,  the  thunderous  and 
constant  rush  of  the  fast-flying  toboggans,  the  merry 
shouts  of  their  occupants,  the  picturesque  crowds 
of  spectators,  most  of  them  arrayed  in  blanket  cos- 
tumes of  many  colors,  red,  white  or  blue,  with  gay 
striped  borders,  made  the  scene  quite  unique,  more  like 
a  page  out  of  a  fairy  tale  than  a  bit  of  actual  reality. 

Botli  Marjorie  and  Professor  Duncan  were  standing- 
absorbed  in  the  fascination  of  the  spectacle,  Marjorie 
trying  to  distinguish  Alan  and  Jack  and  Millie,  as  they 
flashed  past  among  the  rest,  and  too  much  engrossed 
to  notice  the  by-stauders  moving  to  and  fro  close  by. 
But  suddenly  a  very  familiar  voice  and  intonation 
sent  her  thoughts  flying  off  to  old  home  scenes,  before 
she  was  conscious  of  the  reason.  The  next  moment 
she  looked  eagerly  around.  Yes,  sure  enough  !  there 
was  no  mistake  about  it.  Not  ten  yards  off,  as  intent 
as  she  on  the  spectacle,  stood  Nettie  Lane,  her  father 
and  a  cousin  of  Nettie's,  also  well-known  to  Marjorie. 
It  looked  so  strange,  yet  so  homelike,  to  see  them. 
A  s  Marjorie  darted  toward  them,  Nettie  looked  round, 
and  there  was  a  delighted  recognition.  Marjorie  had 
hardly  thought  she  should  have  been  so  glad  to  see 
her  old  school  friend  again. 

"  Well,  now,  isn't  it  funny  we  should  meet  you  so 


CARNIVAL   GLORIES. 


259 


SO 


Boon  ! "  exclaimed  Nettie,  when  the  first  exclamations 
of  surpr'se  were  over,  and  Professor  Duncan  had  been 
introduced  to  the  strangers. 

"  When  did  you  come  ?  "  asked  Marjorie. 

"  Oh  I  we  got  here  Saturday  night,  and  we  were 
awfully  tired  yesterday.  We're  at  the  Windsor,  you 
know,  and  to-day  we  were  driving  all  round  the  city. 
Father  wanted  we  should  see  it,  but  we  were  most 
frozen  when  we  got  in.  1  think  it's  frightfully  cold 
here,  so  we  had  to  stay  in  to  get  thawed.  And  we 
were  going  to  find  you  out  the  first  thing  in  the 
morning ;  but  it's  splendid,  isn't  it,  meeting  here  ? 
I  think  it's  all  lovely  I  But  I  should  be  frightened  to 
death  to  go  down  in  one  of  those  things." 

"  Oh !  it's  not  so  bad  when  you  get  used  to  it," 
remarked  Marjorie,  with  a  little  pride  in  her  enlarged 
experience. 

"  Have  you  been  down  in  one,  then  ?  "  Nettie;  asked, 
much  impressed,  and  Mr.  Lane,  who  had  been  talking 
with  Professor  Duncan,  laughed  and  said  that  "  Nettie 
would  never  be  happy  now  till  she  went  too." 

"  There  are  my  cousins  now,"  said  Marjorie.  "  See, 
you  can  get  a  better  sight  of  them  now  —  they're  just 
stopping  —  and  getting  up." 

"  Wliat !  that  tall  lad  in  the  blanket  suit  and  red 
cap  and  sash?"  asked  Nettie,  regarding  him  with 
great  admiration  as  a  distinguished-looking  personage, 
quite  eclipsing  his  more  soberly  attired  companions. 


!H1 


:1U 


1    ! 


260 


CARNIVAL    GLORIES. 


1' 


The  three  had  now  had  all  the  tobogganing  they 
wanted  for  that  evening,  and  leaving  the  track,  came 
round  to  meet  Marjorie  and  the  professor,  and  were 
duly  introduced  to  her  New  York  friends.  As  the 
latter  were  also  eager  to  go  to  see  the  ice  lion,  they 
all  went  on  together,  Mr.  Lane  hailing  a  sleigh  near 
the  entrance,  into  which  the  whole  party  managed  to 
squeeze  themselves  by  dint  of  a  little  ingenuity.  As 
they  drove  down  town,  both  Marjorie  and  Nettie  had 
a  hundred  questions  to  ask.  Nettie  explained  that 
their  visit  was  quite  a  sudden  idea.  Her  father  had 
some  business  in  Montreal,  which  he  thought  he  could 
accomplish  best  in  person,  and  as  her  aunt  and  cousin 
in  New  York  wanted  to  come,  he  thought  he  would 
take  Nettie  also.  Her  aunt  had  remained  at  the 
hotel,  having  had  enough  of  the  keen,  frosty  air  for 
one  day. 

"  Father  wanted  mother  to  come,"  explained  Nettie, 
"  but  you  know  how  busy  she  always  is,  with  meetings 
and  things.  She  thought  it  was  very  nice  for  me  to 
go,  but  she  said  she'd  rather  stay  at  home  and  attend 
to  her  poor  people,  than  go  to  all  the  carnivals  that 
ever  were." 

Marjorie  felt  a  livelier  emotion  for  esteem  for  Mrs. 
Lane  than  she  had  ever  known  before.  After  know- 
ing Mrs.  West,  she  could  better  appreciate  Mrs. 
Lane's  Christian  zeal  and  devotion,  even  if  she  had 
judged  her  dear  father  too  rashly. 


CAltNlVAl.    GLOUIES. 


2G1 


They  had  not  nearly  got  through  the  rapid  inter- 
change of  queries  and  answers  when  they  found  them- 
selves down  at  the  great  square,  where  the  tall  ehurch 
towers  rose  stately  in  the  white  electric  lights.  Mar- 
jorie  tried  to  exi)lain  to  Nettie  something  of  the 
gallant  feat  of  Maisonneuve,  that  had  become  so 
associated  in  her  mind  with  the  Place  d' Amies,  but 
Nettie  was  too  much  interested  in  the  present  fire- 
works to  care  much  about  — 


!*' 


•s. 


—  "  old,  unhappy,  far-oft' things 
And  battles  long  ago." 

Mr.  Lane,  however,  was  genuinely  interested  in  the 
reminiscence,  and  was  delighted  when  he  found  in 
Professor  Duncan  a  companion  who  could  gratify  his 
desire  for  information  about  the  past  as  well  as  the 
present.  Their  sleigh  was  drawn  up  with  others  on 
the  edge  of  the  square,  whence  they  could  see  fairly 
well  over  the  crowds  that  encircled  the  point  of 
interest. "  Amid  a  great  blaze  of  fireworks,  hissing- 
rockets,  Roman  candles  and  colored  lights,  the  lion 
was  unveiled,  crouched  on  a  pyramidal  pedestal  of  ice, 
at  the  sides  of  which  stood  ice-fountains,  apparently 
playin,];,  the  whole  being  encircled  with  great  white 
cannon  balls  of  ice  and  snow.  The  lion  himself 
showed  as  much  spirit  as  was  possible  with  his  hard 
and  cold  composition.     He  sat  with  head  erect  and 


]U 


^1  ; 


I 


1 


I    Ji 


262 


CARNIVAL   GLORIES. 


open  mouth  and  paw  half-uplifted,  as  if  in  angry 
menace. 

"  Not  quite  so  bad  as  the  American  eagle,  as  he  is 
generally  portrayed,"  remarked  Mr.  Lane  after  they 
had  scrutinized  him  for  a  few  moments,  getting  a  good 
view  of  his  great  head  in  profile  from  their  post  of 
observation. 

"  What  a  jolly  Hon !  "  exclaimed  Alan. 

"I  think  he's  a  beauty  ! "  exclaimed  Nettie  enthu- 
siastically ;  and  Marjorie  and  Millie  wanted  to  know 
whether  he  was  English  or  French. 

"  Both,  I'm  glad  to  say,"  said  the  professor,  then 
added  musingly : 

"  I  wonder  what  he's  thinking  of  —  the  dynamite 
explosion  at  St.  Stephen's,  or  the  fortunes  of  our  brave 
men  in  the  Soudan,  or  Gordon  shut  up  still,  I  fear,  in 
Khartoum !  " 

"  Yes,  indeed,"  replied  Mr.  Lane.  "  He  has  enough 
to  make  him  look  anxious.  It's  a  ticklish  time  for 
your  Government  just  now." 

And  the  two  gentlemen  began  to  talk  politics,  while 
the  others  watched  the  lion  in  silence,  as  blue  lights 
began  to  burn  and  throw  about  him  a  weird  effect ; 
rapidly  changing  as  yellow,  green  and  rose-colored  fire 
and  smoke-clouds  varied  the  coloring.  Several  showy 
pyrotechnic  devices  followed,  while  the  rockets  and 
Koman  candles  continued  to  go  up,  and  shoWers  of 
colored  meteors  came  down  about  the  gleaming  sides  of 


CARNIVAL   GLORIES. 


263 


of 
of 


the  lion,  who  remained  calmly  grim  and  unflinching 
to  the  end,  when  at  last  he  was  left  to  keep  his  lonely 
watch  through  the  silence  of  the  moonlight  night. 
Weeks  after  they  all  remembered  how  the  lion  had  sug- 
gested Gordon's  solitary  watch  in  the  desert.  For 
when  the  sad  news  came,  they  knew  that  that  very  day 
Khartoum  had  fallen,  opened  to  the  Mahdi  by  the 
traitor  Faragh ;  and  that  a  treacherous  stroke  had 
ended  at  once  Gordon's  lonely  watch  and  his  brave 
and  devoted  life. 

As  they  drove  up  to  Dr.  Ramsay's  house  to  deposit 
the  young  people  there,  it  was  settled  by  Alan's  sug- 
gestion that  Nettie  should  come  to  spend  the  following 
afternoon  with  Marjorie,  and  that  they  should  all  go 
together  to  see  the  opening  of  the  new  slide  at  St. 
Helen's  Island,  in  the  evening. 

Accordingly,  next  day,  Mr.  Lane  brought  Nettie 
up  to  the  Ramsays',  where  she  was  introduced  to 
Mrs.  Ramsay,  Marion  and  the  little  ones.  She  was 
eager  to  see  how  everything  looked  in  a  Canadian 
home,  and  went  especially  into  raptures  over  the 
toboggan  standing  in  the  entry,  and  the  snow-shoes 
hanging  up  in  the  hall.  But  her  adiniration  reached 
its  height  when  Effie  came  in,  rosy  with  play,  her 
bright  eyes  and  dark  locks  just  peeping  out  of  the 
peaked  capote  of  her  little  pink-bordered  blanket-coat ; 
for  it  was  a  bitterly  cold  day,  and  the  warm  capote 
was  a  needed  protection. 


' 


m 


|!  M 


.  « 


264 


CARNIVAL    GLORIES. 


"  Oh,  you  cunning  little  thing !  "  she  exclaimed 
when  she  had  kissed  and  hugged  Effie  —  more  to  her 
own  C'Uitent  than  Effie's.  Millie  looked  up  from  her 
book  with  a  surprised  and  rather  indignant  expression 
in  her  keen  eyes,  which  Marjorie  rightly  interpreted,  and 
laughingly  explained  that  Nettie  did  not  mean  to  use 
the  word  ''  cunning  "  in  the  sense  they  usually  associ- 
ated with  it.  Effie  understood  the  adnuration  well 
enough  if  she  did  not  the  word,  and  went  off  to  get  her 
Christmas  doll  to  show,  that  "  Millie  and  Marjorie  had 
dressed  for  her,'  while  Norman  brought  in  their  own 
little  tobos'oan  for  exhibition,  and  offered  Nettie  a  ride 
on  it.  As  for  Robin,  he  justified  his  mistress's  high 
oj)inion  of  his  sagacity  by  his  evident  cordial  rec- 
ognition of  Nettie,  with  whom  he  had  been  a  great 
favorite. 

Cold  as  it  was,  Nettie  thought  she  should  like  to  go 
for  a  brisk  walk  along  Sherbrooke  Street,  and  Mar- 
jorie and  she  set  out,  well  muffled  up,  for  Nettie  had 
added  a  "  cloud  "'  and  some  other  wraps  to  her  outfit 
since  she  had  experienced  "  carnival  weather." 

'I  think  youi'  cousin  Marion's  just  lovely,  Mar- 
jorie," said  Nettie,  as  soon  as  they  were  out.  "  And 
your  aunt's  real  handsome,  and  I'm  sure  she's  very 
kind,  though  she's  so(piiet.  But  they're  all  splendid  ! 
I  think  it's  ever  so  much  nicer  for  you  to  be  there 
where  it's  all  so  lively,  than  to  be  all  alone  in  a  dull 
poky  house  all  day 


J5 


CARNIVAL    GLORIES. 


265 


•nn 


I'y 

I'H 

11 


"I'm  very  fond  of  my  aunt  and  cousins,"  said  Mar- 
jorio,  "  but  you  know  '  there's  no  place  like  home,' 
and  I  slionld  never  find  any  house  '  dull  or  poky ' 
wliere  my  dear  father  lived." 

"  Well,  anyhow,  it's  a  very  good  thing  you've  got 
such  a  nice  home  to  live  in  while  he's  away,"  rejoined 
the  practical  Nettie,  and  this,  at  least,  was  incontro- 
vertible. 

They  walked  far  enough  to  get  a  distant  view  of  the 
"  Montreal  slide,"  at  the  otlier  end  of  tlie  street, 
crowded  with  tobogganers  in  spite  of  the  cold.  By  that 
time,  however,  they  were  glad  to  turn,  but  not  before  a 
gentleman  the}'  met  had  stop])ed  to  warn  them  that 
one  of  Nettie's  ears,  which  was  exposed  to  the  bitter 
wind,  was  getting  frost-bitten.  She  was  very  much 
frightened,  but  Marjorie  told  her  it  was  nothing,  it 
would  b3  all  right  in  a  few  minutes.  And  then  she 
rubbed  it  with  the  corner  of  her  fur  cape,  wliich  her 
uncle  had  told  her  was  the  best  thing  to  do  under  such 
circumstances :  mucli  better  than  using  snow.  And 
presently  Nettie  declared  that  her  ear  was  burning  so 
that  somebody  must  be  praising  her  to  the  skies. 

As  they  passed  the  Wests'  handsome  mansion,  Mar- 
jorie j)ointed  it  out  to  Nettie,  telling  lier  how  Ada  and 
she  had  become  great  friends.  Nettie  admired  the 
exterior  exceedingly,  and  declared  that  she  would  g've 
anything  to  see  the  inside.  Marjori(>  did  not  see  very 
well  how  she  could  be  gratified,  however.     The  Wests' 


266 


CARNIVAL    GLORIES. 


house  was  full  of  visitors  just  now,  and  Ada  was  en- 
grossed, of  course,  with  them,  and  Marjorie  thought 
that  Mrs.  West  might  consider  it  a  great  liberty  if  she 
were  to  tahe  a  friend  of  hers  there  unasked.  However, 
fortune  favored  Nettie.  As  she  wanted  to  go  to  the 
hotel  for  something  she  wanted  to  show  Marjorie,  the 
two  girls  went  down  to  the  Windsor,  and  Nettie  took 
Marjorie  through  the  spacious  and  l)eautiful  drawing- 
rooms  of  that  fine  hotel.  As  they  passed  through, 
Marjorie  encountered  Ada  and  her  mother,  who  Had 
been  paying  a  visit  to  a  friend  also  staying  there.  Of 
course  Ada,  who  had  not  seen  Marjorie  for  several 
days,  stopped  to  talk,  and  Nettie  was  duly  introduced, 
and  to  her  great  delight  received  an  invitation  to  come 
with  Marjorie  to  pay  Ada  a  visit  next  day.  Nettie 
showed  her  friend  her  own  room,  commanding  an 
excellent  view  of  the  ice-palace,  and  said  that  her 
father  wanted  Marjorie  to  dine  with  them  the  next 
evening,  and  that  he  was  going  to  invite  the  whole 
Kamsay  party,  Professor  Duncan  included,  to  come  to 
see  the  "  stoiming "  of  the  ice-palace  from  the  windows 
of  their  own  rooms,  which  could  accommodate  them  all. 
As  soon  as  tea  was  over  at  the  Ram  says'  that  even- 
ing, the  girls  hastened  to  be  in  readiness  for  the 
sleiirh  in  which  Mr.  Lane  was  to  take  down  Marion 
and  Marjorie  as  well  as  his  own  party,  to  see  the  illu- 
mination of  St.  Helen's  Island.  The  others,  Alan, 
Jack  and  Millie,  were  to  walk  down  with  Professor 


I  *^t^»-*d  \»WfV«r.'iid(fc\W^N«A'-' 


f 
I 


■f!J 


"Hli'i 


the 

I  lion 

illu- 

Llan, 

jssor 


lA.SIlJK     nil.    ll.K    I'M.ACK. 


-■:^iTOnp^wirr 


f  if 


'   :(!1| 


I 


HI! 


!^  ii 


CARNIVAL   GLORIES. 


267 


Duncan,  and  meet  them  at  the  shore  ;  and  thev  started 
first,  quite  undaunted  by  the  extreme  cold  of  the 
evening  —  the  keenest  of  the  week. 

The  swift-gliding  sleigh  bore  the  others  down  so 
quickly  that  they  had  plenty  of  time  to  drive  across 
the  smooth,  icy  highway  to  the  illuminated  slide,  which 
showed  distinctly  from  the  crowded  docks,  and  near 
which  a  mimic  volcano  was  blazing  with  crimson 
light,  varied  now  and  then  by  green  and  blue,  giving 
it  rather  a  lurid  aspect,  while  showers  of  rockets  rising 
from  it  completed  the  volcanic  resemblance.  Hundreds 
of  torches,  carried  by  the  French  Canadian  snow-shoe 
clubs,  were  massed  about  the  slide,  while  gay  Cana- 
dian songs  were  sung  b}^  the  snow-shoers.  The  party 
in  the  sleigh,  however,  agreed  that  the  scene  was  quite 
as  pretty  and  effective  from  the  shore,  and  soon  drove 
back,  meeting  the  walkers  at  the  place  they  had  agreed 
on.  From  thence  they  conld  see  the  clustered  torches 
gradually  forming  into  two  long  lines  of  light,  as  the 
snow-shoe  clubs  formed  into  procession  and  crossed 
the  river  highway,  spanning  completely  the  half-mile 
of  river  "boulevard."  while  marching  across.  It  was 
a  pretty  sight  to  see  all  the  different  clubs  filing  past, 
each  in  its  own  distinctive  variety  of  blanket  costume. 
Alan  pointed  out  each  individual  club  as  it  passed, 
telling  them  s(miething  of  its  history  or  "  local  habita- 
tion,' for  there  was  a  muster  of  clubs  from  all  the 
surrounding  points.     The  "  Trappeurs,"  in  their  con- 


%\ 


x.\ 


% 


%  \ 


\  m 


y 


268 


CARNIVAL    GLORIES. 


*i: 


I;-: 


spicuous  blue  and  white  costume,  attracted  most  no- 
tice from  their  fine  imposing  appearance,  and  the 
spirit  with  which  they  sang  the  lively  "  Trappeur's  " 
song,  and  then  glided  into  the  martial  refrain  of  the 
old  Marseillaise. 


"  'Twere  worth  ten  years  of  peaceful  life, 
One  glance  at  their  array !  " 


quoted  Professor  Duncan  laughingly,  as  the  last  of 
the  long  procession  passed  them.  "  Well,  I'm  glad 
they're  not  '  boune  for  battle  strife,'  as  many  such  a 
band  used  to  be,  in  the  old  times  of  the  border  forays 
between  their  ancestors  and  ours,  Mr.  Lane.  May 
there  never  be  occasion  for  border  warfare  a^ain  !  " 

"  Amen  I  "  exclaimed  Mr.  Lane.  ''  Annexation  or 
no  annexation,  the  United  States  and  Canada  are  two 
countries  that  can't  afford  to  quarrel,  and  never  will,  I 
believe,  sc  long  as  thexe  are  so  many  sensible  and 
Christian  men  on  both  sides  of  the  line." 

"  Even  over  the  loaves  and  fishes  ?  "  said  the  pro- 
fessor. 

'•''  If  we  tided  over  the  Trent  affair,  we  can  tide 
over  the  fishes,"  replied  Mr.  Lane,  as  the  driver  turnt^d 
his  horses'  heads,  and  tlie  pedestrians  moved  on, 
Millie  this  time  being  squeezed  into  the  big,  accommo- 
dating sleigli.  But  before  they  parted.  Professor 
Duncan  and   Alan  declared   that  Mr.    Lajie  and  his 


CARNIVAL    GL01UE8. 


2G9 


)ro- 


ined 

on, 

imo- 

Issor 

his 


party  must  drive  back  to  St.  Helen's  Island  next  day, 
to  see  the  model  of  a  trapper's  or  lumbertn's  slianty, 
which  was  erected  there,  in  order  to  show  visitors  a 
little  bit  of  the  wild  life  of  the  hunter  or  voyar/cur  in 
the  backwoods.  It  was  arranged,  therefore,  that  the 
American  visitors  should  go  next  day,  taking  Mar- 
jorie  and  also  Alan  to  act  as  showman  and  ex])lain  it 
all ;  for  he  had  once  gone  out  with  a  hunting  party,  and 
had  lived  for  a  time  in  just  such  a  shanty.  Professor 
Duncan  said  that  he  would  walk  over  himself,  and 
probably  meet  them  over  there. 

Next  day  was  not  quite  so  cold,  and  there  was  a 
threatening  of  snow,  which  was  regarded  with  some 
anxi' ty  lest  it  should  spoil  the  enjoyment  of  the  great 
event  of  the  evening  and  of  the  week  —  the  '••  storming 
of  the  ice-palace,"  to  which  Marjorie  was  looking  for- 
ward with  highly  wrought  exjiectations,  having  de- 
clined all  description  of  it  in  advance,  as  she  wanted 
it  to  be  "  quite  new  and  unexpected,"  and  "  not  like  a 
story  of  which  you  knew  the  end  beforehand."  Mr. 
Lane's  sleigh  drove  up  for  them  early  in  the  afternoon, 
and  Marjorie  was  not  to  return  home  till  after  the 
event  of  the  evening. 

It  was  only  a  short  drive  across  the  frozen  river  to 
the  pretty  island  —  pretty  even  in  winter — with  its 
raised  outline  clearly  visible,  and  its  trees  graceful  in 
the  contour  of  their  leafless  forms.  The  American 
visitors  looked  with  great  interest  at  the  broad,  smooth 


If 

i  i 

'!  1 

■  i '' 

,^'\^ 

,1;, 

ri 


270 


CARNIVAL    GLORIES. 


white  channel  of  the  firmly  frozen  river,  the  gleaming 
villages  scattered  along  its  opposite  shore,  with 
sleighs  of  all  sorts  and  sizes  crossing  to  and  fro,  the 
solid  line  of  the  Victoria  Bridge  to  the  right,  and  the 
long  mass  of  the  city  stretching  down  tlie  river  to  the 
left.  Mr.  Lane  thought  it  must  be  very  like  Russia, 
and  Nettie,  regardless  of  the  cold,  thought  she  should 
like  to  stay  there  all  winter,  especially  as  Alan 
promised  her  unlimited  tobogganing  if  slie  would  do  so. 
"  There's  the  Hunters"'  Camp,"  said  Alan,  as  the 
horses  dashed  up  the  little  ascent  from  the  river. 
Under  some  tall  arching  trees  stood  the  little 
"shanty,"  built  —  walls,  roof  and  all  —  of  round  logs. 
Without  lay  the  carcasses  of  one  or  two  fine  deer, 
while  hares  and  game  hung  along  the  outside  wall, 
and  a  few  fish  of  different  kinds  were  suspended 
beside  them,  all  hard  frozen.  They  found  Professor 
Duncan  walking  about  inspecting  these,  and  talking 
to  one  of  the  hunters,  dressed  in  a  blanket-coat  and 
trapper  appendages,  about  the  habits  and  haunts  of 
the  animals.  After  the  strangers  had  looked  at  these 
trophies  of  the  chast,  they  proceeded  to  inspect  the 
little  cabin,  which,  Alan  told  them,  was  an  exact  model 
of  the  "real  thing."  The  professor  showed  them  how 
ingeniously  the  logs  were  morticed  into  each  other  at 
the  ends,  so  as  to  make  the  walls  as  close  as  possible ; 
how  the  roof  was  formed  of  the  halves  of  the  round 
logs  alternately  reversed,  so  that  it  made  a  tight  roof 


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of 


CARNIVAL   GLORIES. 


271 


not  unlike  a  tiled  one,  at  a  distance,  and  how  ingen- 
iously the  door  was  hung  on  wooden  hinges,  with  a 
wooden  latch  pin,  not  a  nail  nor  a  bit  of  iron  being 
used  in  the  whole  construction. 

*'  All  done  with  the  ax,  every  bit  of  it ;  for  you  see 
there  are  no  hardware  shops  in  the  forest,  and  neces- 
sity is  the  mother  of  invention." 

When  they  entered  the  low  door,  as  they  were 
politely  invited  to  do  by  the  gentlemanly  hunters,  they 
found  the  interior  quite  as  ingeniously  arranged  as  the 
exterior.  At  one  side  a  sort  of  rude  shelf  was  con- 
structed of  boughs,  on  which  was  strewn  the  bedding 
of  hemlock  branches. 

"  Just  like  Pere  Le  Jeune's  bed,  I  suppose,"  said 
Marjoiie.  and  the  prof(»ssor  assented,  adding,  however  : 

"  Minus  the  shelf,  of  course.  They  couldn't  have 
luxuries  in  such  temporary  arrangements  as  wigwams." 

In  the  middle  burned  a  large  fire  of  blazing  logs, 
the  smoke  of  which  ascended  through  the  hole  in  the 
roof,  though  a  percentage,  at  least,  was  wandering 
about  the  cabin,  again  recalling  Pere  Le  Jeune. 
Above  it  v.  as  suspended  from  a  hook  a  great  iron  pot, 
in  which  some  fish  was  being  cooked,  which  the 
hunters  insisted  on  letting  their  guests  taste,  in  little 
tin  camp  plates.  A  wooden  shelf,  fitted  into  the  wall, 
answered  the  purpose  of  a  table,  and  a  smaller  one  sup- 
ported a  tin  jug  and  basin  ;  primitive  toilet  arrange- 
ments.    Caps  and  coats  hung  from  wooden  pins. 


A 


272 


CARNIVAL    GLOKIE8. 


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Alan  surveyed  it  all  with  great  satisfaction.  "  I 
expect  I  shall  see  enough  of  this  sort  of  thing,  by  and 
by,  when  I  am  out  on  *  surveying  [)arties,'  "  he  said  ; 
adding  :  "  You  know  in  the  regular  lumbering  shanties 
they  have  berths  like  those  all  round  the  walls  — 
sometimes  two  tiers  of  thein  —  where  the  men  sleep, 
sometimes  twenty  or  more  in  one  shanty." 

When  they  had  all  inspected  the  ])lace  and  its  fit- 
tings to  their  satisfa(!tion,  they  walked  about  the 
island  a  little,  admiring  the  view  of  the  city,  with  its 
mountain  background,  very  much  the  same,  of  course, 
as  that  which  passengers  by  water  receive  on  approach- 
ing Montreal  by  the  river  steamboat. 

•■'  You  can  hardly  imagine  how  much  prettier  both 
the  view  and  the  island  are  in  summer,  wlien  the 
"  mountain '  there  is  one  mass  of  green,  and  the 
island,  too,  is  as  pretty  a  little  park  as  you  could  wish 
to  see.  And  by  the  way,  Marjorie,  did  I  tell  you  how 
this  island  came  by  its  name?  "said  Professor  Duncan. 

'^  No,"  said  Marjorie  ;   "^  how  did  it  get  it  ?  " 

"  From  the  fair  Helene  de  Champlain.  You  know 
I  told  you  that  Champlain  brought  out  his  beautiful 
and  religious  young  wife  to  Canada,  where  she  did  not 
remain  very  long,  however,  not  caring,  you  see,  for  the 
role  of  a  lonely  'Northern  Light.'  But  while  she  was 
here  she  was  greatly  charmed  with  the  beauty  of  this 
island,  and  bought  it  for  herself  with  her  own  money. 
And  that  is  how  it  comes  to  be  called  St.  Helen's." 


CARNIVAL    (iLORIES. 


273 


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Marjorie  ronienibered  how  she  herself  had  thought 
that  it  would  be  '^  nicest "'  to  be  a  sunbeam,  and  how 
her  father  had  replied.  And  she  felt  sorry  that 
Heleiie  de  Chaniplain  had  not  proved  herself  more 
worthy  of  her  brave  husband.  And  she  wondered 
how  she  eould  go  into  a  convent  jmd  leave  him  to  do 
his  work  all  alone.     The  professor  added  : 

"  I  have  no  doubt,  however,  that  she  helped  to 
excite  some  interest  in  Canada  among  the  good  people 
about  her.  She  would  tell  them  about  the  poor 
Indians  and  their  children,  and  she  probably  did 
something  to  excite  the  great  enthusiasm  that  soon 
sprang  uj)  in  France  about  the  Canadian  Mission." 

They  had  reached  the  place  where  the  sleigh  was 
awaiting  them,  and  the  ladies  and  Mr.  Lam^  took  their 
places,  Alan  preferring  to  walk  back  with  Professor 
Duncan. 

"  What  a  lot  of  things  that  professor  does  know ! 
Why,  Marjorie,  he's  just  like  your  father  for  always 
being  able  to  tell  just  the  things  you  want  to  know  !  " 
exclaimed  Nettie,  while  Marjorie  smiled  with  pleasure 
at  the  recognition  of  her  f;ither's  stores  of  knowledge, 
which  had  always  seemed  so  vast  to  her. 

"  Yes,  yes  ;  the  professor  certainly  is  an  exceedingly 
well-informed  man.  I  consider  that  we  are  much 
indebted  to  you,  Marjorie,  for  the  pleasure  of  his 
acquaintance,"  said  Mr.  Lane. 

"  And    Alan's  a  real  nice    boy,  too,"    said  Nettie, 


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274 


CARNIVAL   GLORIES. 


feeling  that  his  merits  should  not  be  passed  over  in 
silence.  "  And  I  think  he's  quite  handsome,  too,  in 
that  blanket  costume.  It  suits  him  exactly.  I  wish 
he  would  give  me  his  photograph  to  take  home." 

Marjorie  replied  that  she  didn't  ihink  he  had  any- 
good  ones  of  his  present  self. 

There  was  a  little  discussion  as  to  what  the  party 
should  do  next ;  and  it  was  arranged  that  Marjorie 
and  Nettie  should  be  dropped  at  Mrs.  West's  to  pay  the 
visit  on  which  Nettie  had  set  her  heart,  while  the 
others  drove  on  to  see  some  snow-shoe  races  then 
going  on,  and  would  return  to  take  them  to  the  Victo- 
ria Rink,  to  look  in  at  some  fancy  skating  that  was 
going  on  there. 

Fortunacely  Ada  was  at  home.  She  explained  that 
all  the  others  had  gone  out  sightseeing,  but  that  she 
was  rather  tired  of  it,  at  any  rate,  and  had  staid  at 
home,  thinking  that  Marjorie  and  Nettie  would  prob- 
ably call  that  afternoon,  Nettie  was  enthusiastic  in 
her  open  admiration  of  everything  she  saw,  and  Ada 
was  as  willing  to  exhibit  as  the  visitor  was  to  admire. 
The  drawing-room,  the  conservatory,  the  library,  the 
dining-room,  Ada's  own  room,  were  all  visited,  and  the 
multitude  of  ber.utiful  things  they  contained  duly 
scrutinized.  And  Nettie  admired  everything,  from 
the  statuary  and  pictures  down  to  the  ornamental  cov- 
erings of  the  steampipes,  and  the  artistic  tiling  and 
fittings  of  the  grates.     Ada,  who  had  always  an  unlim- 


1:1 


CARNIVAL   GLORIES. 


275 


in 


duly 
'rom 
cov- 
and 
nlim- 


ited  supply  of  candies  on  hand,  treated  her  friends 
h'berally  to  walnut  creams  and  French  bonbons  as 
they  sat  and  talked,  Ada  having  as  many  questions  to 
ask  about  New  York  as  Nettie  had  about  Montreal. 
The  two  got  on  very  well,  notwithstanding  Ada's  pro- 
fessed objection  to  Americans,  and  the  fact  that,  what- 
ever she  might  say  of  Marjorie,  she  could  not  consider 
Nettie  as  anything  but  a  '"  real  American."  But  with 
Ada,  as  with  many  people,  theory  and  practice  were 
somewhat  disconnected. 

When  the  sleigh  returned  to  take  them  up,  Nettie 
knew  far  more  accurately  all  the  details  of  the  interior 
she  had  just  seen  than  Marjorie  did  yet,  and  being  of 
a  very  practical  turn,  she  was  much  impressed  with  the 
amount  of  money  that  must  have  been  spent  on  it. 

''  How  I  should  like  it  if  we  could  have  just  such 
a  house  as  that !  "  she  exclaimed  as  they  drove  off. 
"  O,  father !  it's  such  a  beautiful  house  !  1  wish  you 
could  have  seen  it." 

"I've  no  doubt  of  it,"  said  Mr.  Lane,  smiling. 
"  I've  seen  some  of  these  Montreal  houses  before. 
But  I  don't  think  you  are  very  badly  off  at  home." 

"  I  don't  think  you'd  want  to  change  with  Ada  if 
you  knew  all  about  it,"  said  Marjorie.  ''  I  think  it's 
a  great  deal  nicer  to  have  a  mother  like  yours,  who 
cares  about  giving  her  money  to  missions,  and  looking 
after  poor  people,  than  to  have  the  sort  of  mother  Ada 
has." 


m 


276 


CARNIVAL   GLORIES. 


"You*re  right  there,  Marjorie,"  said  Mr.  Lane, 
whose  quick  ear  caught  the  low-toned  remark.  "  Net- 
tie has  got  a  mother  who's  a  woman  in  a  thousand.  I 
only  hope  she'll  follow  in  her  footsteps." 

The  two  New  York  ladies  had  been  left  at  the  Vic- 
toria Kink,  wnere  Mr.  Lane  and  the  girls  joined  them. 
It  also  was  decorated  for  the  Carnival,  the  chief  orna- 
ment being  a  little  Gothic  tower  in  the  center,  built  of 
ice,  from  which  in  the  evenings  colored  lights  were 
showered  in  profusion.  The  fancy  skating  was  very 
good;  and  the  ladies  watched  with  admiration  the 
graceful  turns  and  twists  which  the  skaters  performed, 
as  if  it  were  the  simplest  matter  possible  to  keep  one's 
balance  on  one  foot  on  a  glassy  surface.  But  they 
soon  grew  tired  of  it,  and  were  very  glad  to  go  back 
to  the  hotel  before  the  early  dusk  began  to  fall,  and 
have  a  rest  before  dinner.  Nettie  and  Marjorie  en- 
sconced themselves  in  one  of  the  recesses  off  the  great 
drawing-room,  and  there,  luxuriously  installed  in  one 
of  the  comfortable  little  sofas,  they  talked  away  till  the 
gong  sounded  for  dinner. 

It  was  a  pleasant  novelty  to  Marjorie  to  sit  down  at 
one  of  the  well-appointed  little  dining-tables  in  the 
magnificent  frescoed  dining-room  of  the  hotel,  in  which 
Nettie  told  her  the  great  ball  was  to  come  off  on  an 
evening  later.  She  and  Nettie  amused  themselves  in 
selecting  the  dishes  with  the  longest  French  names 
from   the  elaborate  menu,   and  were  sometimes  dis- 


CARNIVAL   GLORIES. 


277 


appointed  in  the  results.  At  last  the  fruit  and  ice- 
cream appeared,  and  the  long-protracted  dinner  con- 
cluded with  a  cup  of  coffee.  Marjorie  for  one  was 
not  sorry  when  it  was  over,  and  they  adjourned  to  the 
drawing-room,  where  they  found  her  cousins  already 
arrived.  They  were  soon  joined  by  Professor  Duncan, 
and  then  they  all  proceeded  to  their  posts  of  observa- 
tion upstairs.  Marjorie  was  glad  when  it  turned  out 
that  she,  with  the  two  gentlemen,  were  to  have  a  room 
and  a  window  to  themselves,  as  she  knew  she  should 
enjoy  the  sight  fur  better  for  the  absence  of  the  brisk 
comments  of  Nettie  and  her  cousin. 

By  the  time  they  reached  the  windows,  the  large 
square  below  was  one  black  mass  of  people,  crowded 
as  close  as  they  could  stand  around  the  space  to  be 
occupied  by  the  besieging  band  of  snow-shoers  near 
the  ice-palace,  glittering  in  its  intense  white  radiance. 
Every  available  point  of  vantage  in  the  vicinity  was 
occupied  ;  even  the  trees  served  as  a  roost  for  advent- 
urous sightseers,  while  pillars,  projections  and  roofs 
were  all  utilized. 

"  There  they  come  —  see  the  advancing  line  of 
torches,"  said  the  professor,  pointing  up  the  square. 

On  they  came,  in  long  procession  of  two  and  two,  like 
the  one  of  the  preceding  evening,  the  flaring  torches 
they  carried  throwing  out  the  light  blanket  suits  with 
gay  borders,  and  the  bright  tuques,  sashes  and  hose, 
while  the  snow-shoes  on  which  they  tripped  so  lightly 


278 


CARNIVAL   GLORIES. 


looked  like  tadpoles  on  the  snow.  Each  club  carried 
its  own  standard,  and  the  men  sang  snatches  of  spirited 
songs  as  they  marched  in  time  to  their  own  music. 
The  whole  aspect  of  the  mimic  army  conveyed  an  im- 
pression of  abounding  physical  energy  and  overflowing 
animal  spirits,  quickened  by  the  sharp  frosty  air.  For 
the  snow  flurry  that  had  threatened  had  passed  over, 
and  the  sky  and  atmosphere  were  brilliantly  clear.  As 
the  Tuque  Bhue  Club  passed  beneath  th(  windows, 
Marjorie  eagerly  scanned  it  to  see  whether  she  could 
discover  Alan  and  Gerald,  who  both  belonged  to  it. 
It  was  not  long  before  she  singled  them  out,  walking 
together,  and  pointed  them  out  to  her  companions. 

"  Ah,  yes  !  they  make  a  nice  contrast,  those  two. 
Alan's  such  a  strapping,  broad-shouldered  fellow,  just 
cut  out  for  the  profession  he  wants  to  follow,  and 
Gerald's  a  fine,  thoughtful-looking  lad.  I  often  wonder 
what  he'll  make  of  liimself,"  said  the  professor,  half- 
soliloquizing. 

Onward  strode  the  long  array  of  men,  looking  like 
an  army  of  knights  in  white  armor,  and  winding  round 
the  palace,  encircled  it  with  their  cordon  of  moving- 
lights.  And  then  the  fervor  of  the  fray  began.  One 
rocket  after  another  whizzed  forth  in  the  direction  of 
the  luminous  palace,  till  soon  the  air  was  filled  with  a 
shower  of  fiery  projectiles  describing  all  manner  of 
curves  of  light  against  the  sky.  Lurid  serpents  glided 
up  into  the  air,  circling  round  the  palace  as  if  intent 


CARNIVAL   GLOUIES. 


279 


on  its  destruction.  Tiien  from  the  tall  tower  of  the 
castle,  on  which  the  moving  figures  of  the  defenders 
could  be  distinctly  seen,  came  a  counter-fire ;  the  flash- 
ing lines  of  light  meeting  and  (^-ossing,  the  sharp 
whizz  and  crack  of  the  fireworks  keeping  uj)  a  sem- 
blance of  a  real  assault ;  now  seeming  to  strengthen 
in  its  force,  while  again  the  besiegers  seemed  to  rally 
and  put  forth  all  their  strength  in  sending  fort);  tor- 
rents of  fiery  arrows  on  their  foes.  Now  and  tnen, 
when  the  contest  slackened,  a  side  fire  from  the  Wind- 
sor would  be  poured  into  the  melee.  Suddenly,  as 
the  mimic  battle  went  on,  the  pure  white  light  of  the 
crystal  pile  changed  into  a  yellow  glare,  while  clouds 
of  smoke  arose  above  its  battlements.  The  yellow 
passed  into  a  lurid  red.  The  spectators  held  their 
breath.  It  was  almost  impossible  to  resist  the  illusion 
of  a  castle  in  a  blaze  of  real  flame.  An  almost  pain- 
ful interest  invested  the  brave  defenders,  who  still 
kept  their  post  aloft  on  the  tower.  But  presently  the 
glare  softened,  faded  into  a  deep  purple ;  then  an  ex- 
quisite soft  blue  light  pervaded  the  building,  changing, 
in  its  turn,  to  a  pale  sea-green,  f'inally  even  this 
faded  away ;  and  as  the  last  shower  of  fiery  arrows 
spent  itself  harndessly  in  the  air,  the  palace  stood  once 
more  in  its  crystal  purity,  gleaming  with  its  clear, 
throbbing  white  brilliancy,  like  a  vision  of  ethereal 
beauty  that  no  mortal  power  could  harm  or  destroy. 
"  '  Nee  tamen  cojisumebatur^'  and  yet  it  was  not 


280 


CARNIVAL   GLOKIEH. 


consumed,"  quoted  the  professor,  when  it  was  all  over. 
"  I  hope  we  may  take  it  as  an  omen  of  the  condition 
of  our  brave  Gordon,  unhurt  after  all  he  has  passed 
through." 

And  so,  no  doubt,  it  was,  but  in  a  sense  not  meant 
by  the  speaker ;  for  erelong  they  knew  that  on  that 
very  day  Sir  Charles  Wilson  had  arrived  before  Khar- 
toum to  find  it  fallen,  and  Gordon  relieved,  indeed, 
and  at  "rest  from  his  labors." 

"But  it  seems  to  me,"  he  added,  "a  symbol  of  a 
soul  that  has  been  sorely  tried  by  temptation,  and  yet 
unharmed  ;  nay,  all  the  purer  for  the  battle  fought 
and  the  victory  won  !  You  remember,  Marjorie,  the 
song  your  cousin  sings,  '  Cleansing  Fires  ' : 


** '  For  the  rokl  must  be  tried  by  Are, 
As  the  heart  must  be  tried  with  pain  ! '  " 


i 


"  Well,  now,  that's  a  capital  idea,"  said  Mr.  Lane, 
as  Marjorie,  who  had  been  spell-bound  by  the  spectacle, 
silently  assented.  "  I've  known  just  such  a  ease  my- 
self. I  believe  there's  a  meaning  in  everything,  if  one 
could  just  hit  on  it." 

"  I'm  sure  there  is,"  said  the  professor.  But  now 
the  long  white  train  of  white-uniformed  knights  had 
begun  their  retiring  march,  and  the  professor  suggested 
that  the  younger  members  of  the  party  should  walk  on 
with  him  and  watch  their  progress  up  the  "  mountain," 


CARNIVAL    GLOUIEH. 


281 


a 


iiy- 
»ne 

low 

had 

Ited 

on 


to  which  they  were  now  bound.  The  girls  and  Mr. 
Lane,  too,  gladly  followed  the  suggestion,  and  they 
walked  up  in  the  rear  of  the  departing  army,  watching 
them  winding  in  a  living  line  of  light,  up  the  mount- 
ain path  an<l  along  its  brow.  Led  by  Professor 
Duncan,  they  walked  till  they  gained  the  platform  by 
the  Reservoir,  from  which  point  they  could  at  once 
watch  the  motions  of  the  procession  of  lights  and  enjoy 
the  effect  presented  by  the  gleaming  white  palace 
sparkling  like  a  great  pearl  in  the  city  below  them. 
Having,  ttnally,  followed  the  snow-shoers  back  on  their 
downward  course,  they  encountered  Alan  and  (lerald, 
who  had  '"  deserted,"  as  they  expressed  it.  Alan  per- 
suaded Mr.  Lane  and  Nettie  that  it  was  not  yet  too 
late  for  a  slide  down  the  Tuqw  /i/ewc,  which  was 
almost  in  their  way.  Thither  they  went  accordingly, 
and  Nettie,  in  a  whirlwind  of  fear  and  delight  about 
equally  mingled,  accomplished  the  object  of  hev  and)i- 
tion  —  a  "•  toboggan  ride,"  which  would  be  a  tale  to 
tell  for  years  to  come.  Mr.  Lane  was  persujuled  into 
going  down  also,  but  declared,  as  he  pulled  himself  up 
from  the  snow,  that,  "  while  it  was  vvell  enough  for 
once,  once  was  enough  :  and  that  it  was  high  time  that 
they  were  all  at  home  and  asleep,  instead  of  turning 
night  into  day  in  this  fashion." 

Next  day  there  was  the  grand  drive  which  is  always 
a  "  feature "  of  the  Caimival,  when  a  long  train  of 
sleighs,   in   which   was    represented    every    species  of 


1 


II 


282 


CARNIVAL    GLORIES. 


vehicle  to  be  found  or  devised  in  Montreal ;  making  a 
procession  almost  long  enough  to  enconij)ass  the  city. 
There  were  ,all  the  bona  fide  equipages,  from  the  richly 
robed  family  sleigh,  high  |>oised  above  their  runners, 
to  the  tiniest  and  lowest  cutter,  which  was  one  drawn 
by  a  goat,  which  Marjorie  had  formerly  admired ; 
while  anothci*,  only  a  little  hirger,  had  harnessed  to 
it  a  donkey  arrayed  in  as  full  a  tobogganing  costume 
as  a  donkey  could  wear.  Thcr(?  were  great  drays  and 
primitive  country  sleighs,  and  a'  tall,  old-fashioned 
vehicle  driven  by  a  negro  coachman.  Tlu^n  there  were 
the  great  trophy  sleds ;  one  i)iled  up  with  a  pyramid 
of  snow-shocrs,  another  with  tobogganei-s  ;  a  large  old 
boat  of  antiquarian  interest  mounted  on  runners ;  an 
Indian  canoe  similarly  equipped,  and  a  mammoth 
toboggan  labeled  *'  Baby,"  an  exaggeration  of  one  well 
known  at  the  Tvque  Blnie  slide.  The  day  was  bright 
and  comparatively  mild  —  an  ideal  winter  day  ;  and  the 
visitors  with  Marjorie  enjoyed  the  drive  from  a  bal- 
cony of  the  hotel,  which  of  course  was  on  the  line  of 
mandi.  In  the  evening  they  all  went  down  to  witness 
the  closing  scene  of  the  Carnival  ;  the  "  storming  " 
of  the  condora.,  or  great  ice-cairn  down  town,  in  which 
the  French  Canadian  clubs  figured.  The  huge  white 
tower  rose  in  six  narrow  circles,  each  the  top  of  a 
separate  wall  of  ice,  and  these  ledges  were  all  outlined 
with  snow-shoers,  while  the  apex  of  the  whole  was 
crowned  by  the  colossal  effigy  of  a  snow-shoer,  in  the 


CARNIVAL    (il.OKIKS. 


283 


deep  blue  and  white  iinifonn  of  the  '' Tra])|)eui'H."  A 
Hurroundin*^  jjlialaiix  stormed  the  stron^hohl  witli  their 
roekets  and  fiery  ser})ents,  tlie  attaek  l)ein«»'  a  second 
edition  of  the  one  on  the  iee-pahice  tlie  nij^ht  before. 
Some  very  fine  fireworks  added  to  tiir  g-eneral  effeet ; 
and  the  dense  crowd,  inchiding  a  hir^-e  part  of  tlie 
P^'cneh  population  of  the  city,  seenictl  immensely  de- 
lighted, uttering  gleeful  exclamations  of  "  B(ni  !  " 
"e/b/ifr//"  ^''  j\/(((/tnfi'(/H('  /  ''  'ds  one  |)yroteehnic  dis- 
play after  another  l)lazed  forth  in  its  short-lived  beauty. 
Marjorie  was  amused  and  intei'ested  as  the  j)rofessor 
pointed  out  to  her  sonu;  of  the  rude  litth;  sleighs  of 
the  poor  hfthltautSj  which  had  brought  nj)  their  little 
loads  of  eager  sightseers  from  the  country  homes,  for 
the  rare  and  long-expected  jdeasure.  And  there  they 
sat,  a  picture  of  simple-hearted,  thorough  enjoyment, 
laying  up  recollections  of  these  wonderful  sights,  which 
would  brighten  their  monotonous  lives  for  months  to 
come. 

Mr.  Lane  and  his  party  were  going  to  look  into  the 
Victoria  Rink  on  their  way  home,  as  there  was  a  skat- 
ing carnival  going  on,  to  which  Mr.  Lane  had  received 
tickets  of  admission  from  one  of  his  business  friends. 

Nettie  insisted  that  Marjorie  should  go  with  them, 
promising  to  drive  her  safely  home  after  they  had  just 
taken  a  look  at  the  gay  and  picturesque  scene.  It 
was,  Marjorie  thought,  more  like  a  fairy  tale  than  a 
reality.     The  great  building  was   brilliantly  illumin- 


1  V 


284 


CARNIVAL    (JLOUIK8. 


ated  ;  tlie  fairy-like  ice  grotto  was  charmingly  deco- 
rated with  hrilliant  flowers,  and  the  throng  of  quaint 
and  fanciful  figures,  gliding  in  graci'ful,  undulating 
motion  to  the  inspiriting  niusie,  made  a  picture  worthy 
of  the  uiii(pie  scene.  The  characters  who  glided  j)a8t 
in  endless  suc(!ession  had  all,  surely,  stepped  out  of 
books  or  stories.  There  was,  Marjorie  was  certain,  Ha- 
roun-al-Kaschid  himself.  Next  to  him  came  an  Italian 
peasant  girl ;  then  a  stately  cavalier,  and  a  red  Indian 
with  deerskin  shirt  and  leggings  and  befeathcred  head. 
And  there  was  a  court  huly  in  powdered  wig  and  high- 
heeled  shoes.  And  then  came  a  stalwart  ecclesiastic 
—  could  it  be  Pere  Le  Jeune?  —  and  arm  in  arm  with 
him,  in  doublet  and  hose,  with  jdumed  hat  —  surely 
that  must  be  (Jhamplain !  Between  the  bright  and 
varied  dresses  of  the  swiftly  moving  throng,  the  con- 
tinuous surging  sound  of  a  thousand  skates  grazing 
the  ice  at  once,  and  the  sweet  strains  of  the  floating 
music.  Marjorie  did  not  know  whether  she  were  awake 
or  dreaming  ;  but  she  had  all  the  sensation  of  being 
awakened  from  a  dream  when  Mr.  Lane's  authoritative 
voice  de(;lared  that  "  it  was  eleven  o'clock,  and  high 
time  to  leave  all  this  theatrical  tomfoolery,  and  go 
home  like  sensible  folks,  to  bed." 

And  so  ended  the  glories  of  the  Carnival ;  and  next 
day  Nettie  and  her  friends,  like  many  other  visitors 
from  afar,  were  to  turn  their  faces  homewards. 


v\ 


CHAPTER  XV. 


PEKE     DE     N  OUE. 


Mr.  Lane  had  decided  to  leave  Montreal  by  the 
evening  train.  Nettie  and  her  uunt  and  cousin  would 
have  liked  to  stay  to  get  a  gli!nj)se  of  the  grand  hall 
at  the  Windsor  that  night,  but  Mr.  Lane  would  not 
spare  another  day ;  so  Nettie  reluctantly  prepared  to 
tear  herself  away  from  what  had  been  to  her  like  a 
scene  of  enchantment.  Marjorie  went  shopping  with 
her  in  the  morning,  and  tried  to  restrain  Nettie's  ardor 
to  possess  herself  of  all  manner  of  souvenirs  of  the 
Carnival ;  miniature  snow-shoes,  toboggans,  photo- 
graphs of  the  ice-palac'P,  which  abounded  wherever 
they  turned.  Marjorie  persuaded  her  to  be  satisfied 
with  copies  of  the  illustrated  Carnival  numbers  of  the 
Witness  and  Star,  in  the  way  of  ])ictorial  representa- 
tions, as  Mr.  Lane  had  already  bought  one  excellent 
])hotograph  of  the  ice-palace ;  and  she  herself  j)ro- 
cured  copies  of  the  picture  papers  to  send  to  her  father 
and  to  Rebecca,  knowing  how  the  latter  would  be  de- 
lighted ;  in  the  first  place  with  the  remembrance,  and 

286 


a- 


Tt 


il  ■' 


;ii 


fe-i 


286 


PERE    DE   NOLE. 


ill  the  second,  witli  tlie  wonderful  pictures  of  the 
tobogganing"  and  snow-shoeing  and  all  the  icy  wonders 
of  the  Carnival. 

After  the  shopping  was  done,  Marjorie  acted  as 
cicerone  to  show  tlie  others  tlie  churches.  They  went 
to  Notre  Dame  and  then  to  the  old  lionsecours,  where 
the  subdued  and  foreign  tone,  and  the  humble  kneeling 
h<ihlt(fnts  impressed  Mr.  Lane  very  much  ;  for  this  is 
the  favorite  church  of  tlie  French  Canadian,  and  much 
frequented  daily. 

Coming  back  along  Xotre  Dame  Street,  they  turned 
into  the  '■•Gray  Nunuery,"  Nettie  being  most  eager  to 
see  a  French  convent.  Tliey  looked  around  the  quiet 
courtyard,  such  a  strange  contrast  to  the  bustling, 
crowded  street  they  had  just  left ;  aiul  Marjorie 
showed  Mr.  Lane  the  primitive  old  gray  stone  build- 
ing near  the  gate,  whicli  had  been  the  first  chapel 
foundi-'d  by  Marguerite  de  Bourgeoys  in  the  seven- 
teenth century,  and  whicli  is  now  used  for  some  kind 
of  warehouse.  Then  tiiey  read  the  tablet  on  the  pres- 
ent substantial  stone  chapel,  which  conimeuiorates  the 
name  and  the  fame  of  the  devoted  and  benevolent 
Marguerite.  And  when  a  gentle,  sweet- faced  nun 
conducted  tliem  into  the  great  salon^  she  pointed  out, 
in  her  broken  English,  the  portrait  of  the  foundress, 
with  its  kind  and  sensible  face  ;  and  Marjorie  at  once 
excited  the  pleased  interest  of  their  conductress  when 
she   began   to  tell   her  friends  what  she  had  learned 


i  the 
nders 

ed  as 

went 
where 
eeling 
this  is 

nmeh 

burned  _ 
Loer  to 
5  quiet 
istling-, 
ujorie 
Imihl- 
ehapel 
seven- 
e  kind 
e  pres- 
tes  tlie 
evok'ut 
d    nun 
hI  out, 
nih'oss, 
at  once 
s  when 
learned 


i! 


;; 


I'AXCY    I>Ui:ss    CAlf.NINAI.,    AT    IIIK    \l('l<»ltl\    KINK. 


[■m 


ill 


PERE    DE    NOUE. 


287 


about  the  labors  of  love  of  this  noble-hearted  French 
maiden  for  the  poor  Indian  children  in  the  early  days 
of  M..ntreal. 

Last  of  all  they  went  to  the  Jesuits*  church,  and  there 
they  were  all  delighted  ;  first  with  the  beauty  of  the 
interior  with  its  rich  artistic  decorations,  and  then  with 
the  exquisite  organ  music,  for  there  was  a  practice 
going  on,  and  they  had  the  benefit  of  it. 

Marjorie  took  lunch  with  her  friends  at  the  Wind- 
sor, and  in  the  afternoon  Professor  Duncan  came  by 
appointment  to  take  them  to  see  the  University.  The 
library  and  museum  were  of  course  the  chief  points  of 
interest.  Marjorie  thought  it  would  be  dcliglitful  to 
live  among  those  long  rows  of  books,  and  have  nothing 
to  do  but  read  them  —  a  i)lcasurc  which  Nettie  de- 
clared, she  would  never  envy  her.  But  Nettie  was 
delighted  with  the  museum,  and  es])ccially  with  the 
specimens  of  wild  Canadian  animals.  She  was  not  at 
all  impressed  with  that  black  unintelligible-looking 
object  which  the  professor  told  Mr.  Lane  was  the 
oldest  Canadian  fossil  yet  discovered,  and  which  had 
caused  a  great  deal  of  discussioii  among  naturalists. 
Nor  did  she  care  mucli  for  the  long  rows  of  cases  of 
minerals  and  moths  and  butterflies  :  but  the  beaver 
and  foxes  and  deer  and  bears  were;  inspected  with  the 
greatest  interest,  in  which  IMarjorie  fully  shared  ;  for 
were  not  these  the  very  creatures  which  sometimes 
came  into  the  professor's  stories  ?     He  himself  pointed 


288 


PERE   DE   NOUE. 


out  the  different  kinds  of  deer  ;  showed  them  the  great 
ox-like  head  of  the  moose,  with  its  immense  breadth  of 
nose  and  of  liorns  ;  and  the  smaller,  though  somewhat 
similar  type  of  the  elk  and  tlie  earibou,  with  their 
completely  different  horns,  rounded  and  pointed 
instead  of  flat  and  branching.  He  pointed  out  the 
curious  third  horn  of  the  caribou  deer,  pointing  down- 
ward along  the  creature's  nose,  and  Marjorie  thought 
she  should  have  no  difficulty  now  in  remembering  what 
these  different  species  looked  like.  Then  they  looked 
at  the  finer,  more  graceful  heads  of  the  ordinary  red 
deer,  so  beautiful  and  appealing  with  their  large 
soft  eyes,  that  the  girls  wondered  how  men  could  ever 
be  cruel  enough  to  shoot  them,  and  Professor  Duncan 
admitted  tluit  he  was  quite  of  their  opinion,  whereat 
Mr.  Lane  laughed  heartily,  and  said  that  he  only 
wished  he  had  the  chance  to  bring  down  such  a  fine 
quarry. 

Nettie  looked  with  much  interest  at  the  beaver,  with 
his  flat  trowel  of  a  tail ;  and  the  raccoon,  with  his 
bushy  body,  sharp  nose,  grizzled  eyebrows  and  black 
eyes,  and  at  the  slender  mink  and  soft-furred  otter, 
which  would  now  be  real  creatures  to  her,  instead  of 
mere  names  of  furs.  Then  they  went  to  look  at  the 
birds,  and  after  pointing  out  the  principal  song  birds, 
the  professor  showed  them  the  varieties  of  aquatic 
birds  ;  the  tall  cranes  and  herons,  the  soft-tinted 
ducks,  the  great,  solemn  loon,  with  his  black  head  and 


PERE    DE   NOUE. 


289 


white  collar,  which  frequents  only  solitary  places,  and 
dives  below  the  water  whenever  an  enemy  ai)})roaches. 

But  the  hour  for  tlie  departure  of  Mr.  Lane  and  his 
party  was  drawing  on,  far  too  soon  for  Nettie,  who 
could  hardly  bear  to  leave  "  dear,  delightful  Montreal," 
and  all  her  new  friends,  and  begged  Marjorie  to  write 
to  her  long  letters,  telling  her  about  everybody  and 
everything. 

Professor  Duncan  and  Alan,  as  well  as  Marjorie, 
went  to  the  station  to  see  the  travelers  off ;  and  many 
regrets  and  good  wishes  were  exchanged.  Mr.  Lane 
was  most  earnest  in  his  thanks  to  Professor  Duncan 
for  the  pleasur:;  which  his  society  had  added  to  a  most 
delightful  visit,  and  in  his  hosi)itable  invitation  to 
come  to  see  him,  and  "  do "  New  York  with  him,  as 
they  had  "  done  "  the  Carnival  together. 

"  Good-by,  Marjorie  !  come  back  as  soon  as  you 
can,"  Nettie  called  out  as  a  last  word  from  the  window 
of  the  train.  Then  with  the  usual  shriek  of  the  loco- 
motive, they  were  off,  making  Marjorie  feel,  for  the 
moment,  as  if  she  had  lost  a  link  with  her  old  home- 
life.  But  she  soon  forgot  this  in  hearins:  Professor 
Duncan  and  Alan  discussing,  as  they  walked  home,  the 
battles  in  Egypt,  of  which  the  news  had  just  come,  and 
the  grave  situation  of  Stewart  and  his  troops,  not  to 
speak  of  General  Gordon,  about  whom  the  anxiety  was 
growing  stronger  every  day.  It  was  not  long  before 
their  worst  fears  were  confirmed. 


290 


P£KE  DE  NOUE. 


A  few  days  later  Professor  Duncan  came  in  for  his 
usual  Sunday  evening  visit,  with  a  saddened  look  and 
a  lack  of  his  usual  animation. 

"  So  it's  all  over  out  there,  Kanisay,"  he  said  to  his 
friend  the  doctor. 

"You  think  the  worst  is  true,  then?"  replied  Dr. 
Ramsay.     "  I  have  been  trying  to  hope  still." 

"  I  fear  —  I  fear,"  said  Professor  Duncan  sorrow- 
fully. "  It  seems  too  sad  to  be  true,  but  it's  only  too 
probable.  In  fact,  treachery's  what  I've  been  fearing 
all  along ;  and  they  say  it  was  on  the  twenty-eighth. 
While  we  were  enjoying  the  mimic  siege  of  the  ice- 
palace,  that  tragedy  was  being  enacted  over  there." 

But  Norman  and  Effie  did  not  at  all  enjoy  thi« 
grave  and  solemn  talk,  and  Millie,  though  she  had 
taken  a  profound  interest  in  Gordon's  fate,  thought 
that  it  should  not  swallow  u})  all  other  subjects,  and 
asked  if  they  were  not  going  to  have  that  other  story 
the  professor  had  promised  to  tell  them. 

"  O,  yes !  about  my  good  Pere  De  Noiie,"  he  said, 
"  the  first  martyr  of  the  Canadian  missions.  Well,  it 
isn't  so  difficult  to  turn  from  Gordon  to  him,  for, 
though  the  good  Father  is  by  no  means  a  martial  figure, 
he  showed  that  he  could  be  a  hero,  too,  and  one  with 
the  very  same  spirit  in  him  —  of  humble,  unconscious 
self-sacrifice.  It  is  pleasant,  too,  to  realize  that  who- 
ever may  live  or  die,  that  spirit,  '  the  Spirit  of  the 
Lord,'  abideth  forever." 


PERE    DE   NOUE. 


291 


ice- 


"  Strange,"  said  Dr.  Ramsay,  "  I  never  thought  of 
taking  that  text  just  in  that  way  before !  But  it  is 
wonderfully  true,  and  it  ought  to  be  the  great  consola- 
tion when  '^  a  leader  in  Israel '  falls,  and  for  the  time 
it  seems  as  if  all  was  lost." 

"  Let  me  see  then,"  said  the  i)rofessor,  answering 
the  wistful  looks  of  the  children,  who  were  afraid  that 
one  of  these  digressive  diseussions  was  impending. 
"  I  must  begin  at  the  beginning,  I  suppose,  and  tell 
you  that  when  Pere  Le  Jeune  first  came  to  Quebec, 
Pere  Anne  de  Noiie  —  for  that  was  his  full  name^ — a 
scion  of  a  noble  family  in  Champagne,  came  as  one  of 
his  three  companions." 

'^  Why  did  they  call  a  man  '  Anne  '  ?  "  asked  Millie. 

"  It  was  very  common  for  men  on  entering  ;i  reli- 
gious order,  to  take  a  new  name,  often  the  name  of  a 
saint ;  and  I  suppose  Pere  De  Noiie  chose  St.  Anne 
as  his  patron  saint,  and  took  her  name.  Pere  Le 
Jeune  tells  us  that  poor  Pere  De  Noiie  was  very  sea- 
sick on  their  voyaga  out  ;  and  they  had  good  reason, 
when  they  landed  at  Gaspe,  to  take  all  the  comfort 
they  did  out  of  the  passage  occurring  in  the  service 
for  the  day,  '  Lo,  I  am  with  you  alway,  even  to  the 
end  of  the  world,'  for  at  Tadousac,  they  had  a  horrible 
foretaste  of  the  barbarity  of  the  Indians,  in  the  fate  of 
some  Iroquois  prisoners  whom  they  vainly  tried  to  save 
from  torture  and  death.  And  they  knew  that  such  a 
fate  for  themselves  was  by  no  means  an  improbability. 


292 


PERE    DE   NOUE. 


"  When  they  all  got  settled  down  in  their  little  log- 
built  convent  of  Notre  Dame  des  Aiigeti,  surrounded 
by  palisades  like  a  fort,  more  Jesuits  came  to  them ; 
till  their  family  numbered  six  priests  and  two  lay 
brothers.  The  priests  slept  in  little  cells  eight  feet 
square,  off  their  refectory ;  and  they  had  besides,  a 
chapel,  a  kitchen,  and  a  lodging  for  workmen.  For 
they  had  a  little  farm,  kept  pigs  and  cows,  and  culti- 
vated fields  of  rye,  barley,  wheat  and  maize.  Pere 
Masse,  was  wont  to  be  called  le  Pere  utile^  *  the  useful 
Father,'  because  he  looked  after  the  cows  and  pigs, 
and  Pere  De  Noiie  had  a  more  difficult  task  in  manag- 
ing the  worl'inen,  who  seem  to  have  been  often  discon- 
tented, though  Pere  De  NoUe's  mildness  succeeded  in 
keeping  down  their  grumbling,  and  making  them  fairly 
content  with  their  unequal  wages,  which  of  necessity 
were  somewhat  uncertain.  »  , 

*'  Pere  De  Noiie  does  not  seem  to  have  been  gifted 
with  much  capacity  for  learning  languages,  so  that  he 
could  not  do  a  great  deal  in  the  way  of  converting  the 
Indians  ;  but  he  did  not  think  any  useful  work  beneath 
him.  Pere  Le  Jeune  tells  us  that  some  of  the  Indians 
took  a  curious  fancy  during  the  winter,  that  Pere  De 
Noiie  caused  a  cold  wind  that  was  blowing,  by  going 
out  early  to  work  in  the  wood  when  the  sky  was  red. 
It  seemed  that  they  were  accustomed  themselves  to 
remain  at  home  when  the  sky  was  red,  and  then  the 
wind  did  not  blow ;  and  they  were  sure  that  if  Pere 


PERK    I)K    N01:E. 


293 


De  Noiie  would  only  give  up  his  unseasonable  excur- 
sions, the  wind  would  cease  to  blow. 

"  In  the  end  of  January  of  that  same  winter,  the 
one  preceding  that  of  Pcre  Le  Jeune's  pilgrimage, 
about  which  I  have  told  you,  some  of  tlie  friendly 
Algonquins  were  encamped  at  Cape  Tourmente,  below 
Quebec,  and  sent  an  invitation  to  the  good  Fathers  to 
come  to  visit  them  in  their  wigwam,  and  partake  of 
their  game.  The  Fathers  were  unwilling  to  offend 
them  by  refusing  to  go;  and  moreover  they  heard 
that  an  Indian  well-known  to  them  had  died  down 
there,  and  had  left  two  orphan  children,  whom  they 
wanted  to  secure,  in  order  to  send  them  to  France  to 
be  educated  as  missionaries.  So  Pcre  De  Noiie  deter- 
mined to  take  the  journey,  by  no  means  an  easy  one. 
For,  as  Pcre  Le  Jeune  says,  the  only  inns  were 
the  woods  themselves,  where,  when  night  drew  on,  the 
travelers  would  clear  a  round  space  with  their  snow- 
shoes  for  shovels,  and  make  a  big  fire  in  the  shelter 
of  the  wall  of  snow ;  while  a  little  melted  snow  and 
dried  eel  served  for  supper.  Compare  that  with  the 
Windsor,  Marjorie  I  " 

*'  I  don't  think  Alan  would  care  much  to  go  on  such 
a  hunting  party  as  that,"  said  Millie,  while  Marjorie 
felt  half-ashamed  of  her  sumptuous  dinner  at  the 
hotel. 

"  Well,  they  reached  the  hunting  camp  in  safety, 
and  the  savages  were  very  glad  to  see  them,  though 


•»S'' 


294 


PERE    DE   NOUE. 


they  showed  it  only  by  exclaiming :  '  Ho  I  ho !  ho !  ' 
their  usual  greeting.  They  hastened  to  'put  on  the 
niuckle  pot,'  as  the  Scotch  song  says,  and  boil  some 
elk  flesh  in  snow-water  for  their  visitors'  supper,  and 
as  the  young  hunters  brought  in  some  beavers,  these 
were  added  to  the  feast,  the  Indians  astonishing  Pere 
De  Noiie  by  the  amount  they  could  devour. 

''■  But  the  Father  could  not  eat  the  Iialf-cooked  flesh 
as  they  did,  and  before  long  he  felt  that  he  must 
return,  or  he  would  soon  be  too  weak  to  do  so.  He 
was  indeed  half-starved,  for  the  little  store  of  bread 
that  he  had  carried  with  him  was  greedily  taken  by 
the  Indians,  who  said  that  he  could  eat  as  much  of  it 
as  he  wanted,  when  he  returned  home.  And  while  on 
his  way  home,  with  the  sled  load  of  flesh  that  the 
Indians  had  bestowed  on  him,  he  fairly  gave  in  from 
sickness  and  exhaustion  and  exposure  to  a  bitter  wind, 
and  could  go  no  farther  until  Pere  Le  Jeune,  being 
informed  of  his  condition,  sent  a  messenger  to  carry 
bread  and  wine  to  revive  him.  Rest  and  refreshment, 
however,  soon  restored  him  from  the  sick  exhaustion 
caused  by  exposure,  starvation  and  the  close,  smoky 
atmosphere  of  the  i-eeking  wigwam. 

"  T  have  told  you  this  incident  to  show  you  that 
Pere  De  Noiie,  though  not  naturally  adventurous, 
shrank  from  no  hardship  or  peril  to  which  he  was 
called.  One  of  his  most  marked  characteristics, 
indeed,  was  his  passion  for  implicit  obedience  to  his 


PERE    DE    NOUE. 


295 


that 
urous, 
was 
•istics, 
to  his 


superior  in  all  thingH.  He  was  a  man  of  a  most  sen- 
sitive conscience,  and  nothing  gave  him  so  much  pain 
as  did  fear  of  having  neglected  any  duty.  We  do  not 
hear  very  much  about  him  during  the  evi-ntful  years 
that  followed.  As  his  bad  memory  kei)t  him  from 
mastering  the  Algonquin  language,  he  seems  to  have 
devoted  himself  mainly  to  the  spiritual  needs  of  the 
French  about  the  forts,  or  of  the  Indians  with  whom 
he  could  communicate  through  an  interpreter,  lie 
was  most  attentive  to  the  sick,  and,  sharing  all  the 
hardships  of  his  charge,  he  would  cheerfully  fish  in 
the  river,  or  dig  for  roots  in  the  woods,  in  order  to 
*  feed  his  sheep,'  literally  as  well  as  metaphorically. 

"In  January  of  the  same  year  th;  ♦;  saw  the  martyr- 
dom of  Isaac  Jogues  —  1646  —  Pere  De  Noiie  became, 
as  I  have  said,  in  a  sense  the  first  martyr  of  the  Cana- 
dian Mission,  though  it  was  not  by  the  hands  of  savage 
men.  lie  set  out  from  Three  Rivers  with  two  soldiers 
and  a  Huron  Indian,  for  the  fort  which  the  French 
had  built  at  the  mouth  of  the  Richelieu,  where  he  was 
to  say  mass  and  hear  confessions.  They  all,  of  course, 
walked  on  snow-shoes,  the  soldiers  dragging  the  bag- 
gage after  them  on  their  small  sleds.  The  soldiers 
were  awkward  at  walking  on  snow-shoes,  and  were 
greatly  fatigued  after  their  first  day's  march  of 
eighteen  miles.  Pere  De  Noiie  was  now  an  old  man 
of  sixty-three,  and  could  not  help  with  the  baggage, 
but  he  was  more  accustomed  to  snow-shoes,  and  was 


290 


PERE   DE    NOUE. 


not  SO  much  worn  out  by  the  tramp.  At  night  —  a 
bitter  cohl  night  —  they  made  their  camj)  on  the  shore 
of  the  frozen  Lake  St.  Peter,  in  the  way  I  have 
already  described,  clearing  a  round  spot  in  the  snow, 
hoaj)ing  it  up  as  a  shelter  against  the  wind,  and  then 
building  a  large  fire  in  the  middle  of  the  circle. 

"  All  lay  down  to  sleep,  and  slept  soundly.  But 
about  two  o'clock  in  the  morning  Pcre  De  NoUe,  who 
had  been  troubled  about  the  fatigued  condition  of  his 
companions,  awoke  and  looked  out.  It  was  a  brilliant 
moonlight  night,  such  a  night  as  that  of  our  tramp, 
when  the  boys  went  for  the  Christmas-tree.  The 
broad  highway  of  the  frozen  lake  looked  invitingly 
clear,  open  all  the  way  to  the  dark  border  of  pines  on 
the  other  side.  Pere  De  Noiie  conceived  the  idea 
of  going  on  in  advance,  and  sending  men  ba(^k  from 
the  fort  to  help  his  comrades  to  draw  their  sledges. 
He  knew  the  way  well,  and  had  no  fears.  So  direct- 
ing his  companions  to  follow  next  morning  the  tracks 
of  his  snow-shoes  —  as  he  felt  sure  he  should  reach  the 
fort  before  nightfall  —  he  left  behind  him  his  blanket 
and  his  flint  and  steel,  taking  only  a  piece  of  bread 
and  a  few  prunes  in  his  pocket. 

"But  before  dawn  the  clear  moonlight  grew  clouded 
over  and  a  snowstorm  set  in,  which  left  the  good 
Father  in  darkness,  in  which  he  completely  lost  his 
way.  He  wandered  far  out  on  the  lake,  and  even 
when  day  dawned,  he  coald  still  see  only  the   snow 


PERE    1>E   NOUE. 


297 


close  about  and  beneath  him.  On  be  toiled  tlirough 
the  fast-fuUini^  snow,  often  returning  on  his  own  tra<!k, 
and  at  last,  wlien  night  came  on,  he  dug  a  hole  in  tiie 
snow  close  to  an  island,  and  lay  down  to  rest,  without 
fire  or  covi'ring.  Next  day  he  puslied  on  again,  and, 
sad  to  say,  i)assed  near  the  fort  without  seeing  it, 
and  walked  some  distance  further  on. 

"  Meantime  his  comj)ani()ns,  unable  to  trace  the 
tracks  of  his  snow-shoes,  quickly  covered  by  the  snow, 
had  also  wandennl  from  their  course,  and  had  camped, 
the  first  night,  on  the  shore  of  tlie  same  island, 
not  far  from  Pcre  De  Noiie.  The  Indian,  though 
ignorant  of  the  country,  determined  to  push  on  alone, 
and  soon  reached  the  little  palisaded  fort,  with  its 
little  garrison  of  a  few  men,  doing  sentry  duty  to 
watch  the  Iroquois.  Here  the  Indian  found  to  his 
surprise  that  nothing  had  been  seen  of  tlie  Fi'iher,  and 
a  search  party  started  at  once.  They  quickly  found 
the  soldiers ;  but  in  vain  they  ranged  tlie  ice  in  all 
directions,  shouting  and  firing  to  catch  the  wanderer's 
ear.  All  day  they  searched  in  vain,  returning  at 
night  baffled  and  fearing  the  worst.  Next  morning 
two  Christian  Indians  went  out  with  a  French  soldier, 
and  finding  the  Father's  track  by  the  slight  depression 
it  made  in  the  snow  that  had  covered  it,  they  followed 
it  up  till  they  found  him  —  where  the  Angel  of  Death 
had  found  him  already.  He  had  dug  a  second  hole 
in  the  snow,  and  there,  kneeling  bareheaded,  his  eyes 


^'pff 


'^I3«i 


298 


PERE    DE   NOUE. 


raised  towards  Heaven  and  his  hands  clasped  on  his 
breast,  he  had  met  death  with  the  fortitude  of  a 
martyr  and  the  tranquillity  of  a  saint,  just  as,  I  am 
certain,  our  lamented  Gordon  met  it  in  the  Soudan  !  " 

The  children,  who  had  listened  intently,  were  look- 
ing very  serious ;  Norman  and  Effie,  indeed,  looked 
ready  to  cry,  for  they  could  understand  this  tale  better 
than  that  of  Pere  Le  Jeune's  trials. 

Presently  Mrs.  Ramsay  said  gently :  "  It  is  a 
beautiful  story.  Professor  Duncan,  and,  as  you  say,  it 
shows  very  clearly  the  oneness  of  the  Divine  spirit  of 
Love.  How  it  recalls  the  words  :  ^  Hereby  know  we 
love,  because  He  laid  down  His  life  for  us ;  and 
we  ought  to  lay  down  our  lives  for  the  brethren.' " 

"  Yes ;  those  two  did  it,  in  the  same  spirit  and  by 
the  same  strength,"  said  Dr.  Ramsay  reverently. 

"  But,"  said  Marjorie,  "  why  does  it  say  that  '  we 
ought  to  lay  down  our  lives  for  the  brethren '  ?  It 
can't  mean  every  one,  surely." 

The  professor  smiled.  "  It  means  that  we  ought  to 
hold  ourselves  in  readiness  to  do  it,  if  need  be."  Then 
seeing  that  the  young  folks  looked  surprised,  and 
Marjorie  a  little  doubtful,  he  added : 

"  Yes  ;  children,  that  is  one  of  the  secrets  of  love, 
that  only  love  can  know.  But  every  true  mother 
knows  it,  does  she  not,  Mrs.  Ramsay  ?  " 

'"  Yes,  indeed,"  said  Mrs.  Ramsay,  with  the  loving, 
gentle  smile  that  her  children  knew  so  well. 


.'■{I 


PERE    DE   NOUE. 


299 


(( 


And  the  '  ought  to  hiy  down  our  lives '  implies  the 
oug"ht  to  give  everything  else  when  called  upon  —  time, 
labor,  wealth,  culture,  energy,  everything  we  have  or 
are,  to  feel  that  it  all  belongs  to  Him  whose  we  are  and 
whose  are  our  brothers,  too.  Sometimes  that  is  harder 
than  the  other.  Gordon  himself  said,  '  To  give  your 
life  to  be  taken  away  at  once,  is  one  thing ;  to  live 
such  a  life  as  is  before  me  is  another  and  more  trying 
ordeal.'  " 

"  I  hope  that  Pere  De  Noiie's  self-sacrifice  was 
appreciated,"  said  Dr.  Ramsay. 

"  I  feel  sure  the  lesson  wasn't  lost,"  replied  the  pro- 
fessor. "  Three  years  later,  one  of  those  Christian 
Indians  who  found  his  body  fell  a  victim  to  the 
Iroquois,  when  the  Huron  Mission  was  almost  exter- 
minated by  these  savages.  And  it  is  specially  recorded 
of  him  that  lit  received  his  death-blow  in  exactly  the 
same  posture  in  which  his  friend  and  teacher,  De  Noiie, 
had  resigned  his  life.  Depend  upon  it,  no  act  of  true, 
loving  self-sacrifice  is  ever  lost  I  The  misfortune  and 
the  fault  of  our  vapid,  useless  sort  of  Christianity,  as 
Gordon  called  it,  is  that  it  has  lost,  to  a  great  extent, 
the  sense  of  this  and  the  power  to  do  it.  The  world 
needs  a  new  waking  up  to  what  Christ  taught,  and 
what  it  means  to  be  his  disciples.*' 

"  Well,  I  hope  none  of  us  shall  forget  the  practical 
lessons  you  have  given  us,  Duncan,"  said  Dr.  Ramsay. 

Marjorie,  at  all  events,  did  not. 


CHAPTER   XVI. 


A    NEW    ACQUAINTANCE. 


The  weeks  seemed  to  pass  very  quickly  after  the 
excitement  of  the  Carnival  was  over,  and  things  had 
settled  down  again  into  their  ordinary  course.  Mar- 
jorie  was  much  interested  in  her  studies,  and  was 
making  good  progress  in  them.  She  wanted  to  sur- 
prise her  father  by  the  improvement  she  had  made  in 
various  directions,  especially  in  her  drawing,  at  which 
she  would  have  worked  longer  than  was  good  for  her, 
had  she  been  allowed.  She  was  very  anxious  to  draw 
one  good  head  from  a  model  before  her  father's  return, 
and  her  teacher  told  her  that  she  might  begin  shading 
very  soon,  if  she  continued  to  progress  so  well  in  her 
outlines.  Her  enthusiasm  spurred  Ada  on  to  take 
a  stronger  interest  than  she  had  ever  done  before,  in 
the  lessons,  which  had  previously  been  gone  through 
mechanically,  as  a  sort  of  necessary  evil.  Now  she 
began  to  see  that  they  might  actually  be  a  source  of 
pleasure  —  a  new  revelation  to  her.     In  her  own  nome 

there  was  no  one  who  took  any  interest  in  such  mat- 

300         .  , 


A    NEW    ACQUAINTANCE. 


301 


her 
take 
-e,  in 
fough 
she 
Ice  of 
Inome 
mat- 


ters, except,  indeed,  Gerald,  who,  however,  had  been 
apt  to  look  down  upon  "  girls'  lessons  "  as  rather  be- 
neath his  notice.  She  had  a  fancy  for  drawing,  too, 
though  she  was  very  impatient  of  the  tiresome  straight 
lines  and  curves,  and  was  eager  to  paint  plaques  and 
panels  at  once.  The  frequent  juvenile  parties  and  their 
unsettling  effects,  prevented  her  making  the  progress 
she  might  otherwise  have  done,  for  she  was  by  no  mejins 
wanting  in  quickness  of  comprehension,  and  indeed 
would  sometimes  learn  more  rapidly  than  Marjcrie, 
though  she  was  too  apt  to  forget  as  readily.  But 
Marjorie  was  still  her  favorite  companion,  and  she 
would  do  a  good  deal  to  win  the  approbation  of  the 
friend  who  had  so  completely  won  her  affection,  with- 
out, indeed,  having  cared  much  to  do  so.  But  Ada 
was  a  winning,  kind-hearted  little  maiden,  and  Marjorie 
had  grown  more  attached  to  her  than  she  could  have 
believed  possible. 

Miss  Mostyn,  who  was  fond  of  Ada,  too,  and  had 
not  forgotten  her  interest  in  Dr.  Ramsay's  American 
niece,  invited  the  two  girls  to  spend  an  evening  with 
her  invalid  sister  and  herself.  They  lived  in  a  charm- 
ingly neat  little  house,  on  a  quiet,  unpretending  street, 
and  Marjorie  thought  that,  after  all,  it  could  not  be  so 
very  hard  to  be  an  invalid  when  one  had  so  much 
brightness  about  one  —  such  pretty  flowers  and  dainty 
work,  not  to  speak  of  the  attractive-looking  books 
arranged  on  a  little  table  within  easy  reach.     But  the 


302 


A    NEW    ACQUAINTANCE. 


i 


brightest  object  within  the  little  room  was  the  invalid 
herself.  She  seemed  even  brighter  than  her  active 
sister,  whose  face  was  sometimes  a  little  clouded  by 
her  care  and  concern  for  the  poor  people  whose  affairs 
were  almost  always  on  her  mind. 

"But  you  see,  my  dear,"  she  said  to  Marjorie, 
"•  when  I  come  home  worried  about  things,  it  just  puts 
it  all  away  to  look  at  my  sister's  face  ;  for  she  never 
worries  about  anything.  It  seems  just  a  special  gift 
to  make  up  for  her  affliction." 

But  "  Miss  Matilda,"  as  she  was  called,  did  not 
look  in  the  least  like  an  "  afflicted  person,"  as  they  all 
took  tea  together  at  the  daintily  set  little  table  drawn 
up  beside  her  couch.  She  seemed,  indeed,  overflowing 
with  hr^ppiness  as  she  talked  to  the  girls,  asking  ques- 
tions about  their  work  and  their  pleasures,  pleased 
with  Marjorie's  glowing  description  of  the  ice-palace, 
which  still  stood  in  all  its  beauty,  though  it  was  but 
seldom  now  that  it  shone  at  night  with  the  clear, 
pearl-like  luster  from  the  light  within,  which  gave  it 
sq^ch  an  unearthly  beauty ;  vei-y  much  as  the  face  of 
the  invalid  shone  with  the  inner  light  of  a  truly  happy 
heart. 

"  It's  too  bad  you  can't  see  it,  Miss  Matilda,"  said 
Ada  sympathizingiy. 

"  Ah,  my  dear,  I've  learned  to  know  that  there  are 
better  things  to  enjoy  than  those  we  can  see  with  the 
outward  eyes.     It's  a  lesson  worth  all  that  it  cost,  too, 


n 


iniR" 


A    NEW    ACQUAINTANCE. 


303 


though  you  may  not  think  so  now.  There  are  things 
that  it's  harder  to  submit  to  than  that." 

"Yes,"  said  Marjorie,  "  I  think  I  know  what  must 
be  harder — ^to  see  so  many  things  you  want  to  do." 

Miss  Matihla  smiled  and  said  :  "  Yes,  that's  a  good 
guess,  dear.  It  used  to  be  the  very  hardest  thing  for 
me  to  bear  cheerfully ;  to  know  that  there  was  so 
much  work  to  be  done  for  my  Master  in  the  world, 
and  not  to  be  allowed  to  do  it,  when  I  did  want  to  so 
much.  But  then  I  learned  to  feel  that  if  my  Master 
wanted  me  to  do  it,  he  would  give  me  the  power ;  and 
as  I  had  given  myself  completely  into  his  hands,  I 
felt  I  must  be  satisfied  with  his  plans  for  me,  and  not 
try  to  make  better  one^  for  myself.  And,  trust  me, 
dears,  that's  the  real  secret  of  happiness  and  peace  ; 
there's  nothing  like  it.  Since  I  learned  it,  I've  been 
as  happy  as  the  day  is  long.  There's  a  pretty  little 
verse  that  Dr.  Ramsay  once  quoted  to  me  from  Burns, 
and  I've  never  forgotten  it : 


said 

are 
the 
too, 


"  '  For  Happiness  must  liave  its  seat 

And  center  in  the  breast; 
The  heart's  aye  tlie  part  aye 

That  malies  us  truly  blessed.' 

And  it's  so  true  that  everything  the  heart  wants  is  to 
be  found  in  God." 

Marjorie  and  Ada  talked  about  this  as  they  went 
home,  and  agreed  that  it  did  seem  strange  that  an  in- 


i 


n< 


304 


A    NEW    ACQUAINTANCE. 


valid  SO  shut  out  from  ordinary  enjoyments,  should  be 
so  happy. 

"  I  suppose  it's  because  she's  a  Christian,"  said 
Ada  ;  "  but  I  didn't  think  that  being  a  Christian  made 
people  happy.  Mr.  Hay  ward's  always  talking  about 
religion  as  a  thing  that  spoils  people's  lives,  and  keeps 
them  from  having  any  fun.  And  I'm  sure  he  always 
seems  jolly  enough  without  any." 

"  Yes ;  but  what  would  he  do  if  he  were  a  helpless 
invalid  like  Miss  Matilda  ?  "  asked  Marjorie. 

"  Oh !  he  says  he  would  kill  himself  if  he  had  to 
live  such  a  life.  He  has  a  brother  who  is  an  invalid, 
and  he  says  he  could  never  stand  it." 

"  Then  you  see  Miss  Matilda  is  better  off,"  Marjorie 
replied.  "  I  don't  think  Mr.  Hayward  is  nice  at  all, 
Ada,  and  I  wish  you  didn't  like  him  so  much." 

This,  however,  was  a  subject  on  which  Marjorie  and 
Ada  never  could  agree,  and  the  former  knew  that  her 
words  were  wasted  when  she  objected  to  Mr.  Hayward, 
who  still  frequented  the  Wests'  luxurious  home  as  a 
privileged  visitor.  Every  one  said  that  Dick  West 
was  getting  worse  and  worse,  and  that  he  never  would 
do  any  good  while  he  frequented  the  society  of  his 
questionable  friends.  His  mother,  at  all  events,  made 
no  attempt  to  remove  him  from  the  influence  of  Mr. 
ITayward's  companionship.  Gerald  continued  to  dis- 
like him  as  much  as  ever,  but  he  found  little  sympathy 
whew  be  expressed  it. 


A   NEW    ACQUAINTANCE. 


305 


He  and  Alan  were  both  studying  hard,  in  order  to 
pass  their  final  school  examinations  in  the  spring. 
Alan  wanted  to  go  out  on  a  surveying  party  for  the 
summer,  though  his  father  wished  him  to  enter  the 
University  in  the  autumn,  desiring  that  each  of  his 
boys  should  have  the  benefit  of  a  liberal  education, 
whatever  vocation  they  might  afterwards  follow. 

Gerald  had  not  yet  decided  what  he  was  to  do  after 
his  college  education  was  completed,  but  thought  at 
present  that  he  should  like  very  much  to  go  with  Alan, 
if  they  could  secure  an  appointment  on  the  same  expe- 
dition. He  was  tired,  he  said  to  Alan,  of  the  feather- 
bed life  they  lived  at  home,  and  he  should  like  to  try 
a  little  "  roughing  it,"  and  have  a  little  adventure  by 
way  of  variety. 

His  birthday  occurred  in  March,  and  it  had  been  a 
long-established  custom  that  he  should  have  some  of 
his  most  intimate  boy  friends  to  dine  with  him  on  that 
occasion.  Alan,  of  course,  was  invited,  and  was  very 
particular  —  for  him  —  that  his  attire  should  be  in  the 
most  correct  style,  and  that  his  tie  should  be  of  the 
most  becoming  shade.  Millie  teased  him  by  declaring 
that  this  was  entirely  on  Ada's  account,  and  Marjorie 
laughed,  and  declared  that  she  quite  agreed  with  her, 
whereupon  Alan  professed  to  be  very  indignant,  and 
intimated  that  it  would  be  as  well  if  certain  persons 
would  mind  their  own  business.  Marion,  like  the 
good  elder  sister  she  always  was,  adjusted  his  tie,  scru- 


IP'^.f 


306 


A    NEW    ACQUAINTANCE. 


tinized  his  general  appearance,  and  declared  he  "  would 
do,"  without  making  any  such  ill-natured  insinuations. 
But  she  stopped  him,  as  he  was  rushing  off,  to  whisper 
a  word  in  his  ear. 

"  All  right,  Moll !  You'll  see  how  moderate  I'll  be," 
he  said,  and  went  off  whistling  his  favorite  air,  "-4 
La  Claire  Fontaine.''^ 

"  Where's  Ah:,n  ? "  asked  Dr.  Ramsay,  when  he 
came  in  to  tea,  noticing  his  empty  place  ;  for  it  often 
happened  from  the  doctor's  frequent  absence  from 
meals  and  his  preoccupation  with  his  patients,  that  he 
did  not  know  or  remember  such  little  matters  as  in- 
vitations, though  these  were  not  of  very  frequent 
occurrence  so  far  as  the  young  folks  were  concerned. 
Mrs.  Ramsay  explained  where  he  was. 

"  I  wish  they  didn't  have  these  boys'  dinner  parties," 
he  said,  frowning  slightly  as  he  was  apt  to  do  when  a 
little  worried.  "  They  ha^^e  all  the  long  string  of 
courses,  and  wine  just  like  their  elders,  and,  if  it  does 
nothing  worse,  it  puts  all  sorts  of  nonsense  and  ex- 
travagance into  tlieir  heads.  I  don't  believe  these 
youngsters  will  enjoy  themselves  half  so  much  to-night 
as  Marjorie's  father  and  I  usi'd  to  do,  when  we  had 
our  college  cronies  in  for  a  bit  of  su])per  and  a  '  crack.' 
And  we  thought  it  a  very  fine  supper,  I  assure  you,  if 
we  had  a  bit  of  Finnan  haddie  and  a  Welsh  rabbit,  with 
a  tumbler  of  toddy  to  finish  off  with,  for  you  see  we 
weren't  total  abstinence  in  those  days.     But  we  never 


A    NEW   ACQUAINTANCE. 


307 


>» 


does 
id  ex- 

these 
l-niglit 
fe  had 
srack.' 

'^ou,  if 
with 

iee  we 

never 


took  more  than  one  tumbler,  or  two  at  the  outside,  and 
even  then  our  studies  never  suffered.  But  nowadays 
the  boys  must  have  their  chiret  and  sherry  and  their 
champagne,  and  so  on,  and  poor  Dick  West's  a  sam- 
ple of  what  it  comes  to." 

'•  Well,"  said  Mrs.  Ramsay,  "  I  think  you  would  liave 
been  better  witliout  even  your  glass  of  toddy  ;  and  I 
shouldn't  think  that  any  great  imi)rovement  on  the 
champagne.  The  toddy  hasn't  done  Scotchmen  too 
much  good." 

"O,  yes!  I  know  you'll  be  bringing  up  poor  Burns 
next ;  and  you're  right  enough,  my  dear.  Total  ab- 
stinence is  by  far  the  best  thing  on  the  whole,  either 
for  both  physical  and  moral  health,  especiidly  in  this 
climate  of  ours,  and  with  the  wretched  stuff  they  gen- 
erally sell  here  for  whiskey.  But,  you  see,  if  one  is 
autobiographical  at  all,  one  nmst  stick  to  facts,  and  I 
was  only  comparing  our  Scotch  '  plain  living  ' —  if  not 
'high  thinking '  — with  the  luxury  of  our  modern 
Sybaritism.  One  thing  is  certain  :  Syl)ai'itism  will 
never  make  nu'n ;  and  our  rich  men's  sons  will  never 
be  equal  to  their  fathers.  Well,  I'm  glad,  for  my  boy's 
sake,  that  I'm  not  a  rich  man." 

"  Some  people  would  say  '  sour  grapes,' "  replied 
Mrs.  Ramsay,  "but  I  don't." 

Alan  came  home  in  high  spirits.  They  had  had 
such  a  splendid  dinner  ;  everything  just  like  a  grown- 
up  dinner    party,    "ending    up    with    some    first-rate 


i 


308 


A    NEW    ACQUAINTANCE. 


songs."  And  Ada  "looked  stunning,"  too;  he  had 
never  seen  her  look  prettier  ! 

Mrs.  Kanisay  and  Marion  both  noticed,  a  little 
uneasily,  Alan's  flushed  face  and  excited  manner.  "  I 
suppose  the  champagne  was  good,  too,"  observed  his 
mother. 

"  Oh  !  I  didn't  take  much,  really  ;  only  one  glass, 
and  a  little  claret ;  I  don't  care  for  sherry  a  bit.  But 
some  of  the  boys  had  several  glasses,  and  I  don't  think 
Gerald  liked  it  altogether." 

''  Well,  my  boy,"  said  his  mother  earnestly,  "  I 
should  very  much  prefer  your  not  taking  anything  of 
the  sort.  You've  never  been  accustomed  to  have  it, 
and  I  don't  want  you  to  get  into  drinking  habits.  I 
wish,  that  to  please  me,  you  would  promise  to  abstain 
altogether  ;  at  least  till  you  are  twenty-one,  and  can 
judge  better  what  is  good  for  you.  And  then  I  hope 
you  will  be  actuated  by  a  desire  to  seek  the  good  of 
others  as  well." 

"  Well,  mother,  I'll  think  about  it ;  I  would  do  a 
great  deal  to  please  you,  you  know,"  he  said,  stooping 
for  her  good-night  kiss. 

"  Mamma  is  more  nervous  about  Alan,"  said  Marion, 
"  because  she  had  a  brother  who  spoiled  his  life  by  get- 
ting into  drinking  ways.  And  she  has  a  fancy  that 
Alan  is  very  like  him.  I  hope  he  will  do  what  she 
wants  him  to  do,  or  we  shall  always  be  uneasy  about 
him  when  he's  out  of  our  sight." 


\\ 


A    NEW    ACQUAINTANCE. 


809 


do  a 
)oping 

[arion, 

>y  g«t- 

ly  that 
it  slie 
about 


After  this,  it  was  rather  rcniarkahh'  how  often  the 
subject  of  total  abstinence  came  up  in  the  course  of 
the  Saturday  tramps,  which  Marjorie  enjoyed  weekly 
with  her  young  cousins,  when  Alan  and  she  generally 
had  pretty  long  tjilks,  and  how  many  things  she  found 
to  say  in  its  favor,  both  for  the  benefit  of  Alan  and 
Jack.  And  these  remarks  were  by  no  means  without 
effect,  for  Marjorie  was  so  good  a  comrade  that  she 
had  a  good  deal  of  influence  with  both  boys.  She  had 
become  quite  ex}rert  at  snow-shoeing,  and  so  ju'customed 
to  the  toboggan  slide  that  she  had  lost  all  fear,  and 
only  regretted  that  the  advancing  season  must  soon 
put  an  end  to  this  and  other  winter  sports.  Occasion- 
ally they  varied  the  exercise  by  going  to  the  rink  for 
an  hour  or  two,  and  Marjorie  tried  hard  to  learn  the 
"  Dutch  Roll,"  and  "  Outside  Edge  "  from  Alan,  who 
was  very  willing  to  act  as  instructor.  Gerald,  too, 
skated  very  well,  so  that  Marjorie  had  no  lack  of 
teachers  and  helpers.  She  had  certainly  improved 
very  much  in  health  and  strength  since  she  had  come 
to  Montreal,  and  had  grown  plumper  as  well  as  taller, 
so  that  Dr.  Ramsay  declared  that  she  would  be  a  good 
illustration  of  the  benefit  of  a  sojourn  in  a  doctor's 
family,  as  well  as  of  a  winter  in  Montreal. 

One  ev^ening  early  in  March,  they  had  all  been  at 
the  Tuque  Bhue  slide,  and  as  Alan  and  Marjorie  re- 
turned with  Marion  who  had  been  with  them.  Jack 
and  Millie  lingered  a  little  behind,  for  now  the  days 


310 


A    NEW    ACQUAINT \N(K. 


were  so  miu'li  lonj^cr  tliat  it  was  (|iiito  lij^ht  at  six 
o'clook  ;  anil  these  two  liked  to  get  all  the  fun  they 
could,  now  that  it  would  be  so  soon  over.  Even  when 
the  tea-bell  ning-  tlu^y  had  not  turned  up. 

''  Where  Jire  .Jack  and  Jill?  "  asked  Dr.  Ramsay  a 
little  uneasily,  as  he  noticed  their  absence. 

"Only  at  the  slide,"  replied  Alan  ;  "they  couldn't 
tear  thenisc^lves  away  when  we  did." 

"  I  hojie  they  haven't  got  into  any  mischief,"  he 
said.      "  I'hey  ought  to  be  in  in  time  for  tea." 

"  I'll  go  and  hurry  them  uj),"  said  Alan  good- 
naturedly,  for  he  noticed  that  his  father  looked  rather 
more  worried  than  was  usual  with  him. 

Presently  he  returned,  laughing.  "  They  did  have 
a  '  spill,' ''  he  said,  "but  there's  no  great  harm  done. 


'  Jack  foil  down  nnd  broke  his  crown, 
And  .Till  cjinio  tuniblinj?  after.' 

But  it's  only  the  toboggan  that  got  broken  this  time, 
and  it's  a  wonder  that  it  has  held  out  so  long,  with 
Jack  using  it." 

"  Then  they're  not  hurt  ?  "  said  the  doctor,  looking 
relieved. 

"  No,  only  a  bump  or  two  ;  Jack,  I  fancy,  will  have 
a  black  eye  for  a  day  or  so,  though." 

And  then  the  two  came  in  looking  rather  crestfallen 
and  disheveled,  and  very  eager  to  explain  that  "  it 
wasn't  bad  steering  at  all,  but   only  because  Willie 

■^     ■     ■•     -        \ 


Ht 


A    NKW    ACyUAINTANCK. 


811 


Foster  would  run  his  toboggan  too  close,  juul  his  went 
faster  than  theirs." 

'*  Well,  children,  you  know  you  ought  to  he  very, 
very  careful,  as  I  have  often  told  you,"  said  Dr.  Ram- 
say. "  I'm  afraid  you  are  growing  reckless,  and  I'm 
glad  the  toboggan's  broken,  for  you  will  have  to  get 
on  now  without  one  of  your  own,  and  be  satisfied  to 
get  a  ride  from  Alan  so  long  as  it  lasts.  I  always  did 
think  1  had  a  little  '  second  sight '  about  me,  for  I  don't 
often  feel  so  uneasy  about  you.  But  I've  just  been 
seeing  a  case  that  rather  upset  me.  I'll  tell  you  about 
it  after  tea." 

The  doctor,  however,  only  made  a  pretense  of  taking 
tea,  and  scarcely  ate  a  mouthful.  This  was  not  unusual 
with  him,  but  it  was  unusual  to  hear  him  volunteer  an 
account  of  any  of  his  patients,  especially  painful  ones. 

His  present  "case"  was  sorrowful  enough.  It  was 
that  of  a  poor  little  French  boy  whom  he  had  been 
called  in  to  see  when  passing  near  the  spot  where  he 
lived,  not  far  from  the  railway.  He  had  been  playing 
with  some  other  children  in  a  snowbank,  had  slipped 
and  rolled  down  just  as  a  locomotive  was  aj)proaching, 
and  had  had  his  arm  so  crushed  and  torn,  that  he  had 
had  to  amputate  it  at  the  shoulder. 

"  O,  father !  how  dreadful,"  exclaimed  Jack  and 
Millie  together,  while  Marjorie  grew  pale  and  sick  at 
the  thought  of  a  child  suffering  so  much. 

"  I  didn't  tell  you  about  it  just  to  shock  and  pain 


312 


A   NEW   ACQUAINTANCE. 


you,"  said  the  doctor  ;  "  but  because  I  want  some  of 
you  to  go  to  see  the  poor  chikl  as  often  as  you  can. 
He  ouglit  to  have  been  taken  to  the  hospital,  but  'he 
is  the  only  son  of  his  mother,  and  she  is  a  widow,'  and 
it  would  almost  have  broken  her  heart  to  let  the  child 
go  away  from  her.  So,  as  she  seems  a  very  tidy,  care- 
ful creature,  1  thougl  ♦^  it  best  not  to  press  the  matter. 
Probably  the  child  would  fret  more  with  homesickness 
than  would  counterbalance  the  good  of  the  hosj^ital 
nursing.  These  French  Canadians  do  cling  so  to  their 
little  homes,  however  humble  they  are  !  And  this  is 
such  a  poor  one.  The  mother  takes  in  washing,  and 
manages  to  keep  the  boy  and  herself.  He  did  work 
in  one  of  the  factories  (and  he  isn't  eleven  years  old 
yet)  but  the  confinement  was  too  much  for  him,  for 
he's  a  puny  little  fellow,  and  she  wouldn't  let  him  go 
any  more,  thous^h  she  tells  me  he  wanted  to  do  it  to 
help  her.  But  the  little  room  is  very  bare,  and  I  want 
you  to  see  that  the  child  wants  nothing  that  he  should 
have,  either  in  the  way  of  diet  or  a  little  cheer." 

There  were  several  volunteers  at  once  for  this  kindly 
office,  and  Dr.  Ramsay  gave  directions  as  to  just  what 
diet  was  to  be  prepared  for  his  little  patient,  Mrs. 
Ramsay  undertaking  to  superintend  this,  a  frequent 
office  of  hers  where  poor  patients  were  concerned. 
Marjorie  was  glad  to  have  an  opportunity  of  putting 
in  practice  some  of  the  lessons  she  had  learned  lately, 
especially  as  the  Browns  did  not  now  need  so  much 


A    NEW    ACQUAINTANCE. 


313 


attention  —  the  man  beinof  able  to  be  about  again. 
Mai'iou  and  she  went  down  next  day  with  the  doctor. 

Tlie  little  boy  was  lying-  very  pale  and  weak  in  the 
bare  but  tidy  little  room,  his  mother  busy  with  her 
ironing.  It  was  in  a  narrow  French  street  where  the 
houses  looked  old  and  grimy,  and  all  the  little  shops 
had  French  names.  That  of  the  little  bov  was  Louis 
Girard.  His  mother  was  a  pale,  thin  little  woman, 
looking  exhausted  with  her  night  of  grief  and  watch- 
ing, and  yet  ironing  away  at  her  table  as  if  nothing 
had  happened.  She  told  them,  in  her  broken  English, 
that  her  little  boy  was  so  good  and  so  i)atient ;  '•''  vomme 
un  petit  r//?(/f',"  she  added,  resorting  to  her  French  to 
supplement  her  English. 

The  boy  was  too  weak  to  care  to  speak,  and  only 
feebly  noticed  their  presence.  Marion  offered  to  relieve 
her  by  sitting  u})  with  the  child  that  night,  but  the 
poor  mother  explained  that  the  neighbors  were  very 
kind  ;  "  tr'i'S  ho?i?ies,^^  finding  that  jNIarion  understood 
her  French,  in  which  she  much  ])rcfcrrcd  to  talk.  They 
wouldn't  mind  coming  in  and  sitting  up  when  she  was 
tired  out,  and  she  could  take  a  nap  on  a  neighbor's  bed 
while  its  owner  took  her  place.  And  Marjorie  remem- 
bered what  her  father  had  said  about  the  goodness  of 
the  poor  to  each  other. 

After  that  she  found  her  way  often  to  Madame 
Girard's  little  room,  and  very  soon  poor  little  Louis 
learned  to  watch  for  her  visits.     Encouraged  by  the 


314 


A    NEW    ACQUAINTANXE. 


example  of  her  cousin  Marion,  she  tried  to  talk  to  him 
a  little  in  his  own  language,  and  though  at  first  she 
was  sorely  perplexed  by  his  French  Canadian  patois^ 
she  succeeded  by  and  by  in  being  able  to  understand 
him  and  to  make  him  understand  her.  She  generally 
took  Robin  with  her  on  these  visits,  and  the  little  dog 
was  a  great  source  of  amusement  to  the  little  fellow 
after  he  began  to  get  relief  from  the  prostrating  pain 
and  fever.  He  tried  his  best  to  say  "  Robin,"  and 
was  much  pleased  when  the  dog  would  answer  the  call 
and  leap  up  beside  him.  By  degrees,  as  Marjorie  and 
he  began  to  be  more  intelligible  to  each  other,  he  would 
tell  her  about  the  factory  he  had  been  working  in,  and 
how  hard  the  children  had  to  work  —  being  sometimes 
cuffed  and  beaten  if  they  failed  to  satisfy  their  masters, 
till  Marjorie  felt  shocked  to  think  that  such  things 
could  be. 

Marjorie's  French  vocabulary  was  still  limited,  but 
she  bethought  herself  of  taking-  with  her  a  French 
Testament,  and  reading,  very  slowly,  a  few  verses  at 
a  time.  She  chose  such  passages  as  the  story  of  the 
daughter  of  Jairus,  the  Good  Samaritan,  and  Louis 
listened  earnestly,  nis  black  eyes  fixed  on  her  while 
she  read.  Madame  Girard,  too,  would  often  stop  her 
interminable  ironing,  and  sit  down  to  listen,  exclaim- 
ing approvingly,  "  Cest  tres  joll  pa,"  as  Marjorie 
ended.  How  much  Louis  understood  she  could  not 
tell,  but  there  she  had  to  leave  it.     The  little  fellow 


A    NEW    ACQUAINTANCE. 


aif) 


was  certainly  wonderfully  patient,  a  fact  wliidi  uiucli 
impressed  Jack  and  Millie  when  they  came  to  see  him. 

Marjorie  grew  so  much  interested  in  him  that 
she  never  let  more  than  a  day  or  two  pass  without 
<»oing  to  see  him,  even  though  it  cut  a  little  off  her 
drawing  time  ;  for  her  aunt  insisted  that  she  should 
not  abridge  her  hours  of  exercise.  But  the  snow- 
shoeing  was  practically  over  now,  for  there  had  been 
a  good  deal  of  mild  weather,  and  a  ''  thaw ''  had  rather 
spoiled  it.  The  tobogganing  was  getting  s})oiled,  too, 
though  skating  was  still  available.  The  ice-})alace 
still  stood,  though  breaches  here  and  there  began  to 
show  the  power  of  a  silent  besieger  :  and  the  ice  lion 
and  the  vondora  were  decidedly  the  worse  foi-  tlie  in- 
roads of  the  same  insidious  enemy.  The  latter,  indeed, 
was  already  being  carted  away  in  blocks,  to  till  some 
of  the  ice  houses  for  the  coming  summer. 

Marjorie  tried  to  interef^t  Ada  in  her  little  ])rotege^ 
but  without  much  success.  Ada  was  willing  enough 
to  give  a  generous  donation  out  of  her  ])ocket-money, 
to  buy  for  the  invalid  uidimited  oranges  or  cjindies  : 
but  when  Marjorie  tried  to  coax  her  to  go  to  see  him, 
Ada  was  quite  impracticable.  She  had  all  her  mother's 
aversion  to  being  made  "•  uncomfortable  "  by  scenes  of 
siidvuess  or  suffering,  and  she  didn't  see  wliat  good  she 
could  do  Louis  by  going  to  see  him.  Marjorie  was 
rather  vexed.  She  thought  that,  by  this  time.  Ada 
would  have  profited  more  by  the  lessons  of   Professor 


316 


A    NEW  ACQUAINTANCE. 


Duncan,  and  she  had  quite  set  her  heart  on  starting 
her  on  a  career  of  phihmthropy  through  getting  inter- 
ested in  poor  Louis,  who  of  course  would  have  to  be 
helped  for  a  long  time  to  come.  When  she  could  make 
no  impression  on  Ada  she  began  to  feel  impatient,  and 
a  little  bit  self-righteous,  too. 

"  Well,  Ada,"  she  said  indignantly,  "  wait  till  you 
are  sick  yourself,  and  then  you'll  have  more  sympathy 
for  sick  people ;  "  words  that  she  was  not  to  forget  for 
weeks  to  come,  as  sometimes  happens  with  our  most 
thoughtless  remarks. 

Having  failed  with  Ada,  she  tried  Gerald,  whom  she 
found  more  open  to  persuasion,  and  she  had  much 
pleasure  in  guiding  him  to  Madame  Girard's  little 
room,  and  securing  his  promise  to  visit  and  befriend 
Louis  as  much  as  was  in  his  power  ;  which  was  the 
more  satisfactory,  as  Ada  and  she  had  been  conscious 
of  their  first  coolness  in  regard  to  the  matter ;  Mar- 
jorie  not  being  able  to  retxlh'^.  that  the  habits  of  a  life 
of  self-indulgence  are  not  to  be  broken  in  a  day. 


CHAPTER  XVII. 


ANXIOUS   DAYS. 


RVfR 


It 


Well,  Marjorie,  how  is  your  little  French  friend 
getting  on?"  asked  Professor  Duncan,  one  Sunday 
evening  towards  the  end  of  March,  as  he  took  his  seat 
in  his  accustomed  chair. 

Marjorie  replied  that  he  was  doing  so  well  that  he 
would  soon  be  allowed  to  sit  up  a  little,  and  that  he  had 
already  been  wondering  what  he  should  do  for  a  living, 
with  only  one  hand. 

"  Poor  little  fellow  !  "  he  said.  "  But  I  don't  doubt 
that  something  will  be  found  for  him  to  do.  And  they 
are  wonderfully  adaptive  and  patient,  these  Frencli 
Canadians.  I'm  sorry  to  see,  Ramsay,  that  we're 
likely  to  have  some  trouble  with  their  relations  in  the 
Northwest.  That  rebellion  seems  to  be  getting  seri- 
ous, to  judge  by  the  last  news  of  the  collision  between 
them  and  the  mounted  police." 

••*  Yes,"  said  Dr.  Ramsay ;  "  great  pity  it  occurred. 
1  was  hoping  the  affair  might  have  been  settled  with- 
out bloodshed.      But   wlien   people   get  excited,   and 

ai7 


318 


ANXIOUS   DAYS. 


their  blood  is  up  on  both  sides,  some  rashness  is  sure 
to  occur.  Alas  !  '  how  great  a  matter  a  little  fire 
kiudleth.' " 

"  ye-.F  ''  ?'oplied  the  professor,  "  and  it  could  all  have 
been  so  easily  avoided.  A  little  ordinary  humanity,  a 
little  faithful  attention  to  the  duties  they  are  sworn  to 
fulfill,  on  the  ])art  of  our  public  men  and  their  agents, 
would  1.  .f\?ssed  these  grievances  long  ago.     As 

it  is,  1  iun  ,1:".'^  'hat  these  poor  people  will  learn  the 
bad  lesson  tiiat  hvll  ts  vvi'^  *\ttract  attention  when  all 
other  ap]>i-;  '  hive  1  ■^.  Some  of  our  papers  have 
been  pressing  ciie  .:-.ob  c.iese  poor  half-breeds  for 
months  past,  but  to  no  purpose.  Those  whose  busi- 
ness it  was  to  right  them,  have  been  too  busy  with 
their  own  affairs,  or  party  affairs.  And  now  it's  on 
the  cards  that  this  may  be  a  tedious  and  bloody 
struggle.  What  a  comment  it  is  on  our  boasted  prog- 
ress, to  send  men  out  t(,  shoot  down  these  misguided 
and  neglected  people,  instead  of  giving  them  kind  care 
and  common  justice.  Greed,  speculation,  party  poli- 
tics —  that's  some  of  the  darkness  that  the  light  has  to 
struggle  through  now,  as  best  it  can." 

Alan,  who  had  come  in  while  the  professor  was 
s[>eaking,  listened  with  a  very  sober  face.  He  and 
Gerald  had  been  greatly  excited  by  the  news  of  a  re- 
bellion of  the  half-breeds  and  Indians  in  the  north- 
west of  Canada,  and  of  the  calling  out  of  the  Volun- 
teers, and  both  were  wishing  they  had  been  eligible 


ANXIOUS    DAYS. 


319 


for  such  a  splendid  adventure.  But  these  observa- 
tions of  Professor  Duncan  seemed  to  throw  another 
light  upon  it,  in  which  it  did  not  seem  so  splendid. 

Presently,  however,  another  reeoUeetion  occurred  to 
him  while  Professor  Duncan  and  Dr.  liiimsav  went  on 
discussing  the  situation  ;  and  he  turned  to  Marjorie, 
remarking : 

"  Gerald  says  Ada  is  not  feeling  at  all  well  to-day. 
She  hasn't  been  out  since  the  day  before  yesterday." 

Marjorie  felt  a  little  conscience-stricken.  She  had 
not  gone  to  pay  Ada  her  usual  Saturday  visit,  feeling 
a  little  vexed  still,  at  her  refusal  to  go  to  see  Louis. 
She  thought  she  would  go  to  ask  for  her  the  next 
afternoon. 

But  the  next  day  it  rained  heavily,  and  as  Marjorie 
had  taken  a  little  cold,  her  aunt  would  not  allow  her  to 
go  out  again  after  she  came  home  from  school,  very  wet, 
and  looking  tired.  The  mild  soft  weather  they  had 
had  for  a  little  time  had  been  causing  a  good  deal  of 
illness,  and  Dr.  Ramsay  had  a  good  many  patients  on 
his  hands.  And  next  day  Alau  came  honu»  from  school 
with  the  news  that  Ada  was  very  ill  indeed,  and  that 
the  doctor  feared  an  attack  of  typhoid  fever. 

Typhoid  fever  it  did,  indeed,  turn  out  to  be  ;  and 
before  many  days  were  over,  Dr.  Ramsay  was  called 
in  to  consult  with  the  Wests'  family  i)hysician,  as  he 
had  once  been  called  in  before  in  Dick's  illness.  He 
looked  very  grave  when  he  came  home,  and,  in  reply 


rvmm 


320 


ANXIOUS   DAYS. 


to  Marjorie's  anxious  questioning,  he  said  that  it  was 
a  very  serious  case  indeed,  and  that  Ada  was  not  a 
good  subject  for  a  fever ;  her  temperament  being  very 
excitable,  and  her  constitution  by  no  means  strong. 

It  was  a  terribly  anxious  time  for  poor  Marjorie, 
and  indeed  all  ihe  Ramsay  family  more  or  less  shared 
her  anxiety,  for  Ada  had  become  a  favorite  with  them 
all.  No  one,  indeed,  could  help  being  attracted  by 
her  sunny  face  and  graceful,  winning  ways.  And  so 
this  individual  anxiety  rather  cast  into  the  shade  the 
public  one  which  was  exciting  the  whole  Canadian 
people  with  martial  preparations  and  tidings  of  Indian 
risings  and  frightful  massacres.  At  another  time 
Marjorie  would  have  been  eagerly  sharing  the  general 
excitement.  But  just  now  the  question  of  Ada's  re- 
covery was  paramount,  and  nearly  every  afternoon  she 
called  at  the  house  to  ask  how  the  patient  was,  receiv- 
ing always  the  same  reply :  "  Just  the  same,  Miss  ;  a 
little  better  if  anything." 

But  Dr.  Kamsay  saw  no  improvement  yet,  and  one 
afternoon,  when  Marjorie  returned  from  school,  Marion 
met  her  with  the  sad  intelligence  that  her  father  had 
come  home  from  a  consultation  with  scarcely  any  hope 
of  Ada's  recovering  from  the  utter  prostration  of  her 
present  condition.  While  there  was  life  there  was 
hope,  of  course,  but  no  one  could  tell  at  present  how 
much  power  of  rallying  she  possessed,  and  the  end 
might  come  at  any  moment. 


h  " 


ANXIOUS   DAYS. 


321 


Marjorie  was  almost  stuiinod.  She  liad  never  real- 
ized before  the  idea  of  death  in  connection  with  Ada, 
notwithstanding  her  anxiety.  In  the  rusli  of  feeling 
that  came  over  her,  the  predominant  thought  was  that 
she  must  see  Ada  once  more,  even  if  she  might  not 
speak  to  her.  If  she  only  could  tell  her  how  sorry 
she  was  for  what  now  seemed  to  her  her  unkind  speech 
about  illness,  which  also  seemed  to  her  to  have  been 
an  ill-omened  harbinger  of  evil. 

She  did  not  wait  to  take  counsel  of  any  one,  but 
hurried  off  to  Mr.  West's  house ;  and  instead  of  her 
usual  query,  asked  if  she  could  see  Mrs.  West,  or  any 
one.  The  servant  said  she  did  not  know.  Mrs.  West 
did  not  see  any  one,  but  she  would  see  if  Mr.  Gerald 
was  in,  and  she  showed  Miss  Fleming  into  the  library. 
The  room  seemed  empty,  but  Marjorie  stepped  quietly 
in  over  the  soft  carpet,  for  the  house  seemed  so  hushed 
that  she  instinctively  tried  to  move  silently,  not  to 
break  the  prevailing  stillness.  Suddenly  she  perceived 
that  Mr.  West  was  standing  with  his  back  to  her, 
leaning  on  the  back  of  an  easy-chair,  his  head  bowed 
in  his  hands,  while  a  tempest  of  grief  shook  his  frame. 
Marjorie  was  startled,  and  almost  frightened.  She 
had  never  before  seen  a  man  so  overpowered  with 
emotion,  and  it  was  difficult  to  realize  that  Mr.  West, 
whom  she  had  always  associated  with  riches  and  pros- 
perity, should  be  in  such  a  depth  of  distress,  though 
the  cause  was  surely  quite  sufficient,     Ada  was  the 


,*^' 


r 


322 


ANXIOUS    DAYS. 


apple  of  her  father's  eye,  the  center  of  all  his  hopes 
and  affections,  and  her  removal  from  his  life  would 
make  his  prosperity  itself  seem  valueless.  Marjorie 
could  not  bear  to  remain  there  even  as  an  unseen  wit- 
ness to  his  grief,  and  she  retired  as  noiselessly  as  pos- 
sible to  the  drawing-room,  where  the  sumptuous  luxury 
of  the  surroundings,  and  the  glowing  bloom  of  the  con- 
servatory seemed  in  such  mocking  contrast  to  the  heavy 
cloud  of  sorrow  that  darkened  the  luxurious  home. 

In  a  few  minutes  Gerald  came  in,  looking  pale  and 
haggard.  Marjorie  eagerly  told  him  her  wish.  He 
looked  very  grave  as  he  said  that  probably  she  might 
see  Ada  for  a  minute  or  two,  but  that  Ada  would  not 
see  or  notice  her,  as  she  was  appai-ently  unconscious. 
Pie  would  ask  the  nurse,  as  his  mother  was  lying  down, 
quite  worn  out  with  grief  and  watching. 

He  soon  returned  and  asked  Marjorie  to  follow  him 
upstairs  to  Ada's  room.  How  vividly  the  recollection 
flashed  upon  her  of  the  day  when  Ada,  bright  and 
joyous,  had  led  her  into  it  first.  The  canary  in  his 
gilded  cage  was  banished  now  to  the  conservatory  and 
the  room  was  darkened,  so  that  at  first  Marjorie  could 
hardly  see  the  pale  little  face  on  the  pillow.  But  how 
changed  it  was  since  she  had  last  seen  it.  Wan,  color- 
less, all  the  bright  sunny  locks  vanished  —  for  they 
had  been  cut  off  in  the  beginning  of  her  illness  — 
Marjorie  could  scarcely  realize  that  it  could  be  Ada. 
She  lay  with  closed  eyes,  and  one  might  easily  have 


ANXIOUS    DAYS. 


323 


doubted  whether  she  still  lived.  Marjorie  stood  at  a 
little  distance,  fearful  lest  she  might  disturb  the 
patient,  by  whom  the  nurse  was  keeping  close  watch. 
The  tears  soon  dimmed  her  sight,  and  it  was  only  by 
a  strong  effort  that  she  could  restrain  her  sobs.  But 
it  was  of  no  use  to  stay  here.  Ada  seemed  further 
away  from  her  than  before.  So  she  turned  sadly 
away,  almost  wishing  that  she  had  not  come.  She 
could  not  bear  to  think  of  remembering  Ada  like  this, 
if  —  but  she  would  not  think  of  such  a  possibility 
just  now,  or  she  would  break  down  and  distress  Gerald. 
He  followed  her  silently  down  the  stairs,  and  as  she 
bade  him  good-by,  not  venturing  on  any  expression  of 
sympathy,  he  half-murmured  the  words:  "■Pray  for 
her,  Marjorie ! "  and  turned  away,  choking  down  a 
sob ;  for  he,  too,  was  fonder  of  his  sister  than  of  any 
other  member  of  the  family. 

Marjorie  hurried  on,  too  much  excited  to  walk 
slowly  or  think  calmly.  She  was  possessed  by  one 
overpowering  thought.  If  Ada  died  was  she  ready  to 
pass  to  another  life  ?  She  remembered  vividly  the 
words  Nettie  Lane  had  used  about  her  father,  and 
though  applied  to  him  they  seemed  absurd,  they  now 
appeared  to  her  filled  with  a  terrible  meaning  about 
Ada.  She  could  not  think  that  Ada  was  a  Christian, 
and  if  she  should  die  in  this  condition  !  Why  had 
she  not  tried  harder  to  lead  her  to  think  of  the  things 
that  now  were  the  only  things  that  could  matter  to 


\\ 


324 


ANXIOUS    DAYS. 


her?  She  felt  as  if  she  had  been  false  to  her  duty 
and  cruel  to  her  friend,  and  that  she  would  give  any- 
thing in  her  power  for  an  opportunity  of  retrieving 
her  neglect.  Feeling  as  if  she  could  not  bear  the  bur- 
den of  such  thoughts  alone,  she  was  seized  with  the 
impulse  to  go  to  Miss  Matilda  Mostyn  with  her  trouble. 
She  felt  that  she  would  sympathize  with  her  trouble,  and 
that  slu;  might  throw  some  light  on  the  problem  that 
was  perplexing  her.  Fortunately,  she  found  Miss 
Matilda  alone,  with  the  sweet  and  peaceful  expression 
that  always  made  her  face  so  attractive,  even  to  those 
who  did  not  know  its  secret. 

Miss  Matilda  understood  Marjorie's  trouble  at  once, 
without  much  need  for  explanation.  She  had,  indeed, 
been  thinking  a  great  deal  about  Ada ;  had  been 
taking  her  anxiety  about  the  child  where  she  took 
all  her  burdens,  and  laid  them  down.  And  she 
had  a  soothing  balm  ready ;  even  her  soft  and  gentle 
tones  seemed  to  carry  it  in  advance  to  the  sorrowful 
heart. 

"  Yes,"  she  said,  "  it's  an  anxious  thought,  I  know ; 
many  a  time  I've  had  it  myself  !  But  remember,  Mar- 
jorie,  God  loves  Ada  infinitely  more  than  you  can. 
Can't  you  leave  her  in  his  wise  and  loving  care?" 

"  Yes ;  but  O,  Miss  Matilda !  if  she  were  to  die 
unprepared !  And  she  has  never  had  any  one  to  make 
her  think  of  such  things." 

"  My  dear,"  said  Miss  Matilda,  "  people  talk  a  great 


AN\U)l\s    DAYS. 


325 


deal  too  much  about  being  '  prepared  '  for  death.  If 
they  would  think  a  little  more  about  being  prepared 
for  life !  It's  all  a  i)art  of  the  one  thing,  for  time 
can't  make  sueh  a  difference  in  God's  sight.  It  ia  a 
terrible  thing,  if  one  realizes  it,  for  any  one  to  be 
living  in  any  corner  of  (iod's  universe  and  not  be 
friends  —  be  reconciled  with  the  God  of  infinite  love 
and  wisdom  ;  not  be  the  true  child  of  tlie  loving  Father. 
But  then  he  has  such  infinite  patience,  as  well  as  in- 
finite love  and  wisdom.  And  he  has  many  a  way 
that  we  know  not,  to  bring  his  '  banished  '  home  ; 
banished,  of  course,  by  their  own  wayward  will.  So, 
my  dear,  just  trust  poor  little  Ada  in  her  Father's 
hands,  and  don't  think  that  you  )uld  do  more  for  her 
than  he  can." 

Marjorie  went  home  much  comforted,  though  she 
cried  half  the  night.  And  Alan  looked  as  if  he  had 
not  slept  much  either ;  in  fact,  he  had  been  very  dif- 
ferent from  the  usual  Alan  ever  since  his  father  had 
been  called  in  for  consultation  in  Ada's  case.  No 
one  took  any  notice  of  his  depression,  knowing  that 
he  would  shrink  from  and  resent  it.  Even  Millie  had 
sympathy  and  tact  enough  to  refrain  from  seeming  to 
observe  that  he  was  not  in  his  usual  spirits  ;  and  the 
progress  of  affairs  in  the  northwest,  and  the  mustering 
of  the  Volunteers  always  furnished  a  timely  relief  from 
the  topic  which  was  too  painful  in  its  interest  to  per- 
mit of  discussion. 


326 


ANXJOUS    DAYS. 


But,  as  the  April  djijs  passed  slowly  by,  and  the 
piles  of  snow  were  inpynsibly  melting  away  from  the 
streets,  Ada's  condition  seemed  to  improve  a  little  ; 
and  Dr.  Ramsay,  who  visited  her  daily,  began  to  dare 
to  hope  that  she  had,  as  he  said,  '  turned  the  corner." 
But  he  warned  them  all,  when  tliey  expressed  their 
delight,  that  it  would  require  the  greatest  care  and 
most  judicious  nursing  to  bring  her  back  to  health 
and  strength,  and  that  any  relapse  would  probably 
prove  fatal.  As  the  orders  were  that  she  was  to  be 
kept  perfectly  quiet,  Marjorie  had  no  expectation  of 
seeing  her  for  a  long  time.  But  one  day  Gerald  came 
over  to  say  that  Ada  had  taken  a  fancy  to  see  Mar- 
jorie, and  that  she  would  fret  if  it  were  not  gratified ; 
only,  if  Marjorie  came,  she  must  not  let  Ada  waste 
any  of  her  strength  in  talking.  Marjorie  willingly 
promised  to  try  to  keep  Ada  from  getting  excited  by 
the  interview,  and  accompanied  Gerald  at  once,  her 
heart  beating  quickly  at  the  thought  of  seeing  her 
friend  again  after  this  long  season  of  suspense,  which 
had  made  her  feel  how  strongly  she  had  become 
attached  to  her  kind-hearted,  though  thoughtless  little 
friend. 

Ada  looked  a  little  more  like  herself  than  she  had 
done  when  Marjorie  had  last  seen  her,  but  the  absence 
of  the  cloud  of  bright  hair  and  the  soft  wild-rose  color 
made  a  very  great  difference.  She  tried  to  smile  when 
she  saw  Marjorie,  who  only  took  her  hand  quietly,  as 


I 


^^^' 


ANXIOUS    DAYS. 


327 


if  she  had  seen  her  the  day  before,  having  been  strictly 
charged  by  her  uncle  to  show  no  feeling  in  the  inter- 
view. Ada  was  not  allowed  to  talk  yet,  nor  indeed 
was  she  disposed  to  do  so ;  but  she  did  summon  strength 
enough  to  say  to  Marjorie,  with  a  rueful  attempt  at  a 
smile : 

"  Haven't  they  made  me  a  fright  ?  All  my  poor 
hair  gone  I " 

Marjorie  only  smiled,  and  said  that  it  wouldn't  be 
long  in  growing  again  ;  but  in  her  heart  she  felt  almost 
as  much  regret  as  Ada.  It  did  seem  like  a  pretty 
picture  spoiled ;  and  yet  she  wondered  how  she  could 
think  of  such  things  when  Ada  had  been  restored,  as 
it  seemed,  from  the  very  grave. 

Mrs.  West  sat  beside  Ada  this  time,  though  the 
nurse  was  still  on  duty ;  and  Marjorie  was  shocked  by 
the  great  change  in  her,  too.  She  looked  ten  years 
older ;  indeed,  it  was  hard  to  believe  that  this  worn 
and  faded-looking  woman  could  be  the  mucli-admired 
Mrs.  West.  For  she  had  a  heart,  after  all,  and  next 
to  her  eldest  son,  who  liad  been  addino-  recentlv  to  her 
load  of  anxiety,  its  idol  was  her  pretty  daiigliter ;  and 
when  trouble  and  threatened  bereavement  came,  she 
found  no  help  or  comfort  in  the  things  that  ordinarily 
satisfied  her  selnsh  heart.  After  all,  as  Marjorie's 
father  had  once  said  to  hei",  people  did  not  always 
have  to  lose  their  riches  to  find  out  that  they  are  not 
"  enduring  habitations." 


328 


ANXIOUS    DAYS. 


lu  :;; 


Ada  begged  Marjorie  to  come  again  soon,  and  Mrs. 
West  indorsed  the  request ;  for  weakness  and  inac- 
tivity made  Ada  very  fretful,  and  her  mother  was  glad 
to  catch  at  anything  that  seemed  likely  to  entertain 
her  a  little.  So  she  came  frequently  to  sit  with  her 
in  the  afternoons,  not,  however,  quite  deserting  Louis, 
who  was  getting  on  nicely,  and  now  had  Millie  and 
Jack  for  his  more  frequent  visitors ;  though  Jack  had 
to  carrv  on  most  of  his  conversation  with  him  in  dumb 
show.  Marjorie  had  to  give  up  all  thoughts  of  draw- 
ing the  head  she  had  been  ambitious  to  do  for  her 
father ;  but  she  felt  that  Ada  needed  her,  and  that 
her  father  would  be  much  better  pleased  with  her  doing 
the  kindness  to  a  friend  than  he  would  be  with  the 
most  successful  drawing.  And  indeed  it  made  no 
small  difference  in  the  rapidity  of  Ada's  improvement 
that  Marjorie  came  to  sit  by  her  almost  daily  for  two 
or  three  hours  ;  talking  to  her  when  she  was  disposed 
to  listen,  and  sometimes  reading  to  her  bits  of  Mr. 
Fleming's  letters,  containing  lively  descriptions  of  the 
West  India  Islands,  which  he  was  visiting ;  and  occa- 
sionally a  })art  of  one  of  his  printed  articles  about  the 
Southern  life,  which  had  now  begun  to  appear,  much 
to  Marjorie's  delight,  for  it  seemed  to  her  a  visible 
token  of  his  re-established  health. 

But  one  afternoon  Gerald  insisted  that  Marjorie 
should  go  down  with  him  to  see  the  "  ice  shove  "  ;  that 
is,  the  curious  massing  and  piling  up  of  the  cakes  of 


ANXIOUS    DAYS. 


329 


ice  along  the  shore  when  the  river  bursts  its  icy  bar- 
riers. It  occasionally  causes  a  flood,  but  at  this  time 
it  was  not  so  violent,  though  the  jagged  masses  with 
which  the  shore  was  heaped  bore  witness  to  the  strength 
of  the  current  that  drove  them  before  it  and  landed 
them  in  picturesque  confusion  along  tlie  river  bank. 

"  You  must  go  to  see  the  Lachine  Kapids  some  day," 
Gerald  said,  "  and  then  you  won't  wonder  at  the  effects 
of  such  an  irresistible  force." 

Marjorie  described  it  all  to  Ada,  on  her  return,  but 
Ada  listened  without  much  interest.  She  had  never 
been  taught  to  enjoy  nature  much  in  any  form,  and 
did  not  see  anything  particularly  interesting  about  an 
"  ice  shove." 

Presently  she  asked  Marjorie  how  the  little  French 
boy  was  getting  on.  She  seemed  to  have  only  now 
recollected  him. 

Marjorie  told  ner,  adding  that  Millie  and  Jack 
went  to  see  him  often,  now  that  she  could  not  go  so 
frequently. 

"  O,  dear  !  "  said  Ada  ;  "  how  tiresomely  good  you 
all  are  !     Even   Jack   and   Millie,  too !  " 

Marjorie  said  nothing,  only  smiled  a  little.  But 
Ada  had  got  into  an  unusually  thouglitful  mood.  The 
two  girls  were  quite  alone,  and  the  air  of  a  very  balmy 
spring  day  came  gently  through  the  ventihitor,  while 
the  spring  sunshine,  softened  by  the  rose-tinted  cur- 
tains, flooded  the  pretty  room. 


330 


ANXIOUS    DAYS. 


4  I 

1        Si 


m  4 


"  Marjorie,"  began  Ada,  very  seriously,  "  I  suppose 
I  came  very  near  dying?" 

"  I  suppose  so,"  Marjorie  replied.  It  was  the  first 
time  that  Ada  had  seemed  conscious  of  having  been 
in  such  danger. 

"  Well,  if  I  had  died,  what  do  you  suppose  would 
have  become  of  me  ?  " 

This  question  completely  puzzled  Marjorie.  She  did 
not  know  what  to  answer,  even  to  herself. 

"  You  know  ministers  always  say  that  people  can't 
go  to  Heaven  unless  they  are  Christians,  and  I  know 
very  well  I'm  not  a  Christian,  though  I  believe  you 
are  !     So  I  couldn't  have  gone  to  Heaven,  could  I  ?  " 

Marjorie  could  only  say  that  her  father  used  to  tell 
her  that  if  people  could  go  to  Heaven  without  loving 
Christ,  they  wouldn't  be  happy  there ;  and  that  the 
Bible  didn't  say  anything  about  ''  going  to  Heaven," 
but  about  going  to  be  "  with  Christ." 

But  this  was  unintelligible  to  Ada,  nor  indeed  did 
Marjorie  understand  it  yet,  herself. 

"  Well,  you  know  the  rich  man  that  was  clothed  in 
purple  and  fine  linen  was  'in  torments.'  I  heard  our 
clergyman  preach  about  that  the  last  Sunday  I  was 
in  church,  and  it  has  often  come  into  my  head  since. 
And  when  he  came  to  see  me  —  you  know  mamma 
only  let  him  come  once  —  he  prayed  that  I  might  be 
made  one  of  God's  children.  Now,  how  can  I,  Mar- 
jorie ?     I  think  I'd  like  to  be  if  I  could." 


r"^'* 


ANXIOUS    DAYS. 


331 


Marjorie  was  deliglited  to  hear  Ada  say  this,  but 
she  hardly  knew  what  to  reply.  Then  she  remembered 
what  her  father  had  said  to  her  about  being  "  con- 
verted," and  she  tried  to  explain  to  Ada  that  it  meant 
being  willing  to  follow  and  obey  Christ. 

"  But  how  can  I  be  willing,  and  what  must  I  do  to 
obey  Him?"  persisted  Ada. 

•■'  He  can  make  us  willing  if  we  ask  Him,"  said 
Mai'joi'ie,  "■  and  He  will  show  us  just  what  He  wants  us 
to  do.      But  the  first  thing  is  to  love  Him." 

"  Yes,"  said  Ada  ;  "  but  how  can  I  love  Him,  when 
I've  never  seen  Him?  And  how  can  I  be  sui*'  He  will 
her»,r  me  if  I  ask  Him  ?  I  know  Mr.  Hayward  didn't 
believe  that  He  could  hear  at  all.  Did  you  know  he 
was  gone  away,  Marjorie  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  said  Marjorie,  "  and  I'm  very  glad." 

"  Well,  I  was  dreadfully  sorry  at  first,'*  said  Ada. 
"  That  was  one  thing  that  made  me  fret  when  I  was 
beginning  to  get  better.  But  I  don't  mind  so  much 
now,  for  I  know  he  used  to  say  lots  of  things  he  didn't 
mean.  But  you  know  he  never  went  to  church,  and 
he  didn't  believe  Christ  could  hear  us  at  all." 

"  Yes,  I  know,"  said  Marjorie ;  "  and  once  my 
father  didn't,  either.  But  he  does  now,  and  so  do  I. 
I'm  sure  Christ  was  divine  when  he  was  on  earth,  for, 
as  Professor  Duncan  says,  no  one  else  wa.*  ever  so 
altogether  good  ;  and  if  he  was  divine  then,  he  i**  divine 
still,  and  when  we  try  most  to  be  like  him,  we  feel  that 


^3  'i,! 


:332 


ANXIorS    DA  vs. 


He  does  hear  and  help  us.  And  I  think  He  has  helped 
you,  in  making  you  well,  just  as  he  did  the  daughter 
of  Jairus,  you  remember." 

"  O,  yes !  I  remember,"  said  Ada  eagerly.  "  Do 
you  know,  I  once  saw  such  a  beautiful  picture !  It's 
here  in  Montreal,  and  I  wish  you  could  see  it.  Christ 
is  in  it,  sitting  by  the  little  girl,  and  just  putting  out 
his  hand  to  wake  her  uj) ;  he  looks  so  good  and  kind. 
I  thought  then  I  could  love  him  if  he  looked  like  that." 

"But  ir*;  must  have  looked  like  that,  Ada,  if  He 
could  die  for  us  because  ITe  loved  us  and  wanted  to 
save  us  I  And  if  He  did  tliat,  don't  you  think  He  will 
help  you  to  love  and  obey  Him  if  you  ask  Him?  " 

"Well,  I  will  ask  Him,"  said  Ada,  "if  that's  all  it 
means  to  be  a  Christian !  But  I  used  to  think  it 
meant  going  to  church  very  often,  and  reading  sermons, 
and  going  to  see  sick  people  all  the  time,  and  never 
having  any  pleasure.  And  so  I  didn't  want  to  be  a 
Christian;  at  any  rate,  not  till  I  knew  you.  But  I'm 
glad  you  like  to  come  to  see  sick  people,  anyway,"  she 
added,  with  one  of  her  old  smiles. 

"But  it  does  mean  some  of  these  things,"  said  Mar- 
jorie,  "  for  you  know  Christ  says  we  are  to  love  God 
*  with  all  our  heart,  and  our  neighbor  as  ourselves.'  " 

"  But  how  can  we?"  said  Ada.      "Nobody  does." 

"  I  don't  know,"  replied  Marjorie ;  "  but  that  is 
what  Christ  says,  and  my  father  said  that  he  always 
meant  what  he  said." 


ANXIOUS    DAYS. 


333 


"  But  if  people  loved  their  neighbors  as  themselves, 
there  wouldn't  be  any  poor  people  in  the  world,  and 
that  poor  boy  wouldn't  have  so  little,  nor  his  mother 
to  work  so  hard,  when  we  have  so  much." 

"  No,"  said  Marjorie,  "  I  think  a  good  many  things 
would  be  different  if  we  all  did  love  our  neighbor  as 
ourselves ;  though  I  don't  know  if  there  would  be  no 
poor  people.  My  father  says  there  always  will  be,  so 
long  as  some  folks  are  idle  and  lazy.  But  theie 
wouldn't  be  so  many,  and  Louis  would  be  better  off." 

"  Well,  Mai'jorie,  I've  got  a  surprise  for  you,"  said 
Ada.  "  I  asked  mamrua,  to-day,  to  give  me  all  the 
pocket-money  she  owed  me,  and  here  it  is,"  she  added, 
taking  her  little  velvet  purse  from  under  her  pillow. 
"•  And  you  are  to  take  it  all  for  little  Louis,  to  get 
him  anything  you  like." 

And  Marjorie,  with  great  satisfaction,  took  out  a 
bright  gold  sovereign,  and  never  even  thought  that, 
after  all,  her  own  prediction  had  come  true. 

She  could  not  forbear  going  to  tell  Miss  Matilda 
of  this  conversation ;  and  the  invalid  rejoiced  with  her 
over  the  good  news,  and  reminded  her  that  she  should 
not  forget  to  return  thanks  to  liim  who  had  thus 
answered  their  prayers.  Ada's  recovery  seemed  to 
progress  more  rapidly  now  that  her  heart  had  become 
more  at  rest ;  and  before  the  swelling  buds  on  the  trees 
began  to  burst,  she  was  able  to  be  moved  downstairs 
to  the  sofa  in  the  library. 


CHAPTER    XVTII. 


OPENING      B  L  ()  S  8  O  M  S. 


Every  day  now  grew  more  springlike.  The  last 
traces  of  the  snow  and  ice  were  fast  disappearing  under 
the  genial  influence  of  the  brightening  sunshine,  and 
Jack  and  Millie  were  already  contemplating  an  expe- 
dition to  the  "  mountain  "  to  look  for  the  first  wild 
flowers. 

Now  that  the  roads  were  growing  dry  and  smooth, 
(lerald  was  out  every  afternoon  on  his  pony  or  his 
bicycle,  for  he  had  both  ;  and  he  frequently  let  Alan 
have  the  use  of  the  one  he  was  not  using  liimself ,  which 
Alan  much  enjoyed.  Meantime  the  progress  of  the 
struggle  in  the  Northwest  was  the  absorbing  topic. 
The  interest  grew  more  intense  when  the  news  came  of 
bloody  conflicts  between  the  Volunteers  and  the  half- 
breeds  ;  and  the  lists  of  killed  and  wounded  were 
eagerly  scanned,  even  by  those  who,  like  the  Ramsays, 
had  no  very  personal  interest  in  the  matter.  Alan 
and  Gerald  wished  again  and  again  that  they  could 
have  been  in  one  of  the  engagements  ;  a  wish  which 

334 


OPENING    B1.0S80MS. 


335 


their  mothers  and  friends  certainly  did  not  endorse. 
But  the  decisive  conflicts  at  Batoche  and  Cut  Knife 
Hill  "-broke  the  l)ack  of  the  rebellion,''  as  Dr.  Kanisay 
said  ;  and  the  restoration  of  quiet  and  order  would 
only  be  a  question  of  time. 

"  I  hope  the  lesson  will  be  taken  to  heart  by 
all  whom  it  concerns,"  said  Piofessor  Duncan,  ••'  and 
that  another  time  they  won't  wait  to  do  their  duty  till 
battle  and  massacre  and  a  devastated  country  have 
waked  them  up  to  it."  And  when  the  description 
came  of  the  conference  between  the  cliief  Poundmaker 
and  the  Canadian  commander,  they  all  read  it  with  an 
interest  intensified  by  the  stories  which  had  taken 
them  into  the  roving-  life  of  the  Indians  of  two  hun- 
dred years  before.  Indeed,  as  Professor  Duncan  said, 
it  seemed  like  a  revival  of  the  old  stories,  only  with 
the  great  difference  that  the  Indians  felt  themselves 
in  the  power  of  the  white  man  ;  and  that,  for  the  first 
time,  they  had  real  reason  to  com})lain  of  their  treat- 
ment under  the  British  flag;  for  it  was  clear  that  if 
the  agents  of  the  Government  had  done  their  duty, 
the  rising  would  never  have  occurred  ;  and  Dr.  Ram- 
say read  with  pleasure  a  letter  he  had  received  from  a 
friend  in  the  Northwest,  who  testified  to  the  fact  that 
but  for  the  influence  of  the  Christian  missionaries 
among  the  Indians,  the  rising  would  have  been  far 
more  general  and  far  more  destructive. 

Ada's  pony  had  been  brought  into  town  —  a  pretty 


1!i  " 


m 


••  1 


336 


OPENING   BL0880M8. 


little  sorrel,  gentle,  and  nicely  trained  ;  and  she  was 
counting  the  weeks  that  must  elapse  before  she  could 
use  it.  But  a  bright  thought  ()('(nn'red  to  her  ;  why 
might  not  Marjorie  have  a  ride  on  him  ?  The  riding- 
master  had  been  giving  his  education  some  finishing 
touches,  and  Gerald  had  tried  him  several  times  while 
Alan  rode  his,  and  declared  him  "  just  the  thing  for  a 
girl,  so  easy  and  gentle  ;  and  spirited  enough,  too, 
for  Ada,  at  least." 

Marjorie  thought  the  proposal  of  a  ride  a  charming 
one,  and  as  Mrs.  West  was  willing  to  carry  out  any 
wish  of  Ada's,  and  Dr.  and  Mrs.  Kamsay  had  no 
objection,  she  went,  one  fine  May  afternoon,  to  don 
Ada's  habit  and  start  for  her  ride.  The;  little  blue 
riding-habit  was  a  trifle  small  for  Marjorie,  but  it  had 
been  made  large  for  Ada,  who  was  growing  fast,  so 
that  it  answered  the  purpose  tolerably  well.  Marjorie 
was  more  excited  than  she  was  willing  to  show  when 
Gerald  put  her  up  on  the  saddle,  in  orthodox  fashion, 
and  she  gathered  the  reins  in  her  hand,  Gerald  show- 
ing her  what  he  considered  the  best  way  to  hold  them. 

They  walked  soberly  enough  along  the  winding 
road  that  led  up  the  mountain,  now  and  then  turning 
to  look  back  at  the  city,  as  it  lay  spread  out  below. 
When  they  were  fairly  on  the  pretty  mountain  road, 
where  the  air  was  full  of  the  fragrance  of  opening- 
leaves  and  wild  blossoms,  they  had  a  brisk  canter  till 
they  came  again  to  a  more  sudden  rise.     Marjorie  was 


OPENING   BLOSSOMS. 


337 


SO  exhilarated  by  the  delightful  bounding  motion, 
which  was  so  nuu'h  better  than  a  toboggan,  after  all, 
that  she  forgot  all  about  the  view  that  lay  behind 
them  until,  coming  out  at  last  on  the  very  brow  of 
the  stately  hill,  Gerald  drew  rein  and  told  her  to  look 
down. 

And  there,  Indeed,  was  a  view  to  enjoy,  with  the 
soft  spring  sunshine  flooding  the  scene,  and  giving  an 
ethereal  coloring  to  the  distant  hills.  Just  below  lay 
the  city,  its  streets  and  squares  mapped  out  in  serried 
ranks.  Beyond  it  curved  the  wide  blue  river,  its  chan- 
nel studded  here  and  there  with  bosky  islands,  while 
beyond  it  soft  blue  mountain  summits  rose  against  the 
distant  horizon.  Gerald  told  her  the  names  of  the 
different  hills,  showed  her  St.  Helen's  Island,  the  way 
down  to  Quebec,  and  then,  when  they  had  gone  a  little 
farther  on,  pointed  out  the  white  gleam  of  the  Lachine 
Rapids  in  the  far  distance. 

Marjorie  remembered  what  Ada  had  said  about  the 
greater  beauty  of  the  view  in  summer,  and  wished  she 
were  there  to  see  it  with  them. 

"  I  don't  wonder  that  Jacques  Cartier  called  this 
'  Mount  Royal,'  "  she  said,  thinking  of  Professor 
Duncan's  stories. 

"  No,"  said  Gerald.  "  I  wish  there  were  any  such 
great  things  to  do  now,  as  those  old  discoverers  did." 

"  Are  there  not  always  great  things  to  do  ?  "  said 
Marjorie. 


I!  '\ 


338 


OPENING    HLOHHOMIS. 


"■ 


"Well,  what  would  you  be  if  you  were  a  boy?" 
asked  Gerald,  after  a  slight  pause. 

Marjorie  did  not  know.  She  thought  it  would  be 
nicest  to  be  something  like  her  father. 

"  I  used  to  think  I'd  like  to  be  a  soldier,"  Gerald 
said  ;  "  but  there  don't  seem  to  be  any  very  noble 
wars  now,  at  any  rate.  I've  been  thinking  that,  after 
all,  there  must  be  better  things  to  do  than  picking  off 
poor  savages,  and  that  seems  to  be  the  main  thing  our 
men  have  to  do  nowadays.  And  then,  as  Professor 
Duncan  says,  war  should  not  be  thought  of  between 
Christian  nations  any  more.  But  I  do  wish  there 
was  something  to  be  done  that  one  could  put  one's 
heart  into !  I'm  sick  of  the  flat  sort  of  life  most 
people  seem  to  live,  and  I  often  think  I'd  like  to  cut 
it  all,  and  go  off,  like  those  old  Jesuit  fellows  that 
Professor  Duncan  is  so  fond  of." 

"  Or  like  those  Cambridge  graduates  ?  "  suggested 
Marjorie. 

"  Well,  I  tell  you,  it  would  be  a  fine  thing  if  one 
only  could  believe  as  hard  as  they  do ;  to  put  one's 
heart  and  soul  into  a  cause  that  one  thought  was  the 
best  in  all  the  world.  I'm  sure  I  wish  I  could!  IT.*; 
a  fine  thing  to  be  a  doctor  like  Dr.  Ramsay,  i 

know  T  could  never  make  a  doctor  of  myself,  an  ,  as 
for  law  and  business,  I  hate  the  very  thought  of 
them." 

"  There's  the  Church,  then,"  said  Marjorie. 


?; 


OPENING    BLOSSOMS. 


339 


lit; 


"  Yes,"  said  (lerald  with  a  .sigh.  "  I  should  like 
the  Chiu'ch  Hist  nitc,  if  I  wore  only  good  enough!  Or 
rather,  what  1  should  iik(!  would  bo  to  bo  a  missionary, 
or  to  go  oft'  like  (iordon  and  fool  I  was  doing  some- 
thing that  would  really  tell  !  But  then,  you  know, 
one  couldn't  do  that  unless  one  believed  with  all  one's 
heart." 

"  Of  course  not,''  said  Marjorie.  '"'  But  why 
shouldn't  one  ?  " 

"Oh!  girls  find  all  that  so  easy.  So  did  I,  once, 
only  I  never  thought  much  about  it  at  all !  But  that 
Hay  ward  used  to  say  so  many  things ;  1  know  he  was 
no  good,  any  way,  but  then  I  couldn't  help  thinking 
about  the  things  he  said,  and  I  can't  believe  quite  as 
1  did." 

"  I  don't  think  that  sort  of  believing  was  worth 
nuich,"  replied  Marj«)rie.  "  I  think  my  father  wouldn't 
call  it  believing  at  all,  only  *  taking  for  granted.'  " 

"And  isn't  that  what  everybody  has  to  do?"  asked 
Gerald,  surprised. 

"  My  father  didn't,  at  any  rate.  I  can't  exactly  ex- 
plain it,  but  I  know  that  ho  doesn't  call  it  believing 
unless  things  are  quite  real  to  you.  And  he  says  if 
<me  only  tries  to  do  what  one  does  believe,  and  is  will- 
ing to  get  more  light,  one  will  get  it.  You  know  that 
verse,  don't  you  :  '  If  any  man  will  do  His  will,  he 
shall  i     (>w  of  the  doctrine  '  ?  " 

I  don't  know  it,"  said  Gerald.     "  You  must 


a 


Ir 


■^) 


5   '^         i 

II --i 


340 


OPENING    BLOSSOMS. 


show  it  to  me.  I  should  like  to  hear  your  father  talk 
about  such  things." 

"•  Perhaps  you  may,"  said  Marjorie.  "  You  know 
he's  coming-  for  me,  some  t'.ae  this  summer.  But  then 
there's  Professor  Duncan.     He's  almost  as  good." 

Gerald  laughed,  with  a  little  of  his  old  satirical 
manner.  ''  Well,  if  ever  I  have  a  daughter,"  he  said, 
"■  I  hope  she  will  think  as  much  of  me  as  you  do  of 
your  father  !  " 

"  Perhaps  slie  will,"  Marjorie  retorted,  "  if  you 
deserve  it  as  well." 

^'  Suppose  we  have  another  canter  now,"  said  Gerald, 
ignoring  this  remark. 

As  they  leisurely  desceUvled  the  mountain  slope  after 
their  canter,  they  passed  children  carrying  little  bas- 
kets and  bunches  of  the  graceful  white  trilliums  or 
"  May  lilies,"  as  they  called  them  ;  with  a  few  late 
hepaticas  and  vioh^ts.  Here  and  there  a  wild  plum 
or  cherry  spread  its  whit*i  plumes  beside  their  way. 
It  was  an  exquisite  evening,  full  of  fragrance  and 
freshness,  and  Marjorie  long  remembered  the  charm 
of  the  ride,  with  the  spring  sunshine  on  the  scene  and 
in  her  heart,  too. 

But  good  and  ill  are  apt  to  be  intermingled  in  life. 
When  Marjorie  reached  home  she  found  a  bit  of  bad 
news  awaiting  her,  and  Norman  and  Effie  in  deep  de- 
jection, though  they  declared  that  ''  it  wasn'i,  their 
fault,  at  any  rate."     Robin  had  gone  out  with  them. 


i 


OPENING    BLOSSOMS. 


341 


as  he  often  did  now,  and  had  not  come  home.  They 
did  not  know  just  when  he  had  left  them  or  how  he 
had  lost  them.  Alan  had  been  out  searching  for  him 
ever  since,  and  .lack  and  Millie  had  gone  in  another 
direction ;  but  no  trace  had  been  found  of  him  yet. 
Marjorie  was  very  uneasy.  It  was  not  only  that  she 
herself  was  very  fond  of  the  little  fellow,  but  he 
seemed  a  charge  from  her  father ;  and  what  could  she 
say  to  him  if  Robin  were  lost  ?  However,  she  would 
not  add  to  the  children's  sorrow,  and  tried  to  be  as 
hopeful  as  she  could ;  though  she  had  a  very  uneasy 
heart  all  night,  not  knowing  where  poor  little  Robin 
might  be.  Dr.  Ramsay  had  telephoned  to  the  police- 
station,  and  seal  an  advertisement  to  the  paper,  so 
that  no  precaution  might  be  neglected ;  for  Robin  was 
a  dog  of  some  pecuniary  value,  and  if  Ite  had  been 
stolen,  might  not  readily  be  recovered. 

But  relief  came  from  an  unexpected  quarter.  Next 
mornino-,  as  Mariorie  was  about  to  set  out  on  the 
search  herself,  little  Louis  Girard  appeared  with  Robin 
in  his  arm  —  having,  poor  little  fellow,  but  the  one  — 
and  with  his  pale  face  beaming  with  delight  at  being 
the  restorer  of  the  "  little  dog  of  Mademoiselle." 
Robin  had  run  into  the  house  where  he  lived,  having 
seemingly  been  chased  and  frightened.  It  was  too 
late  in  the  evening  to  bring  him  home,  so  Louis  had 
taken  good  care  of  him  till  morning,  and  had  begged 
his  mother  to  let  him  take  the  dog  home  himself.      It 


H;:l! 


342 


OPENING   BLOSSOMS. 


m 


m  ■! 


was  hard  to  say  which  of  the  three  concerned  showed 
most  pleasure  in  the  denouement  —  Marjorie,  Robin, 
or  Robin's  restorer.  When  Ada  heard  the  story  she 
was  so  delighted  that  she  said  Louis  must  be  doubly 
rewarded.  For  she  and  Marjorie  had  been  planning 
how  they  might  get  him  out  to  the  country  air,  to 
make  him  grow  really  well  and  strong. 

Marjorie's  birthday  came  on  the  twenty-fourth  of 
May,  which  is  a  public  holiday  in  Canada,  being  ob- 
served as  the  birthday  of  Queen  Victoria.  There  had 
been  a  good  many  projects  made  as  to  how  it  would 
be  best  to  celebrate  the  day.  It  was  finally  decided 
that  they  should  have  a  picnic  on  St.  Helen's  Island, 
which  is  often  called  the  island  park  of  Montreal. 
The  day  turned  out  a  lovely  one,  and  the  only  regret 
felt  by  the  party  as  they  went  down  to  the  ferry,  whk 
that  Ada  was  not  able  to  accompany  them ;  of  course 
(jerald  and  Professor  Duncan  were  guests.  The 
picnic  would  not  have  been  complete  without  the  pro- 
fessor. Mrs.  Ramsay  enjoyed  the  excursion  as  much 
as  any  of  the  younger  ones,  and  Dr.  Ramsay  said  if 
he  could  manage  it  he  would  come  in  the  afternoon  to 
escort  them  liome.  And  Miss  Mostyn,  by  general  con- 
sent, was  invited,  and  agreed  to  take  a  holiday  for  once. 

Marjorie  had  had  a  birthday  letter  from  her  father 
that  morning,  and  it  inclosed  a  little  birthday  gift,  the 
proof  of  another  "parable,"  by  the  author  of  her  fa- 
vorite Northern  Lights.     She  took  it  with  her  to  the 


•J 

iri 


OPENING    BLOSSOMS. 


343 


island,  that  Professor  Duncan  might  read  it  at  leisure, 
and  gave  it  to  him  to  look  at  as  he  lay  down  on  the 
grass  to  luxuriate  in  the  beauty  of  the  day  and  the 
newly-fledged  trees,  of  which  there  were  many  large 
and  beautiful  ones  on  the  island.  Marion  and  Mar- 
jorie,  with  Alan  and  Gerald,  strolled  leisurely  along 
the  pretty  shady  walks  through  the  wood  or  along  the 
shore,  picking  a  few  wild  flowers  here  and  there  ; 
snowy  trilliums  or  purple  violets  or  wild  diolytra. 
They  even  found  in  a  shady  spot,  a  late  specimen 
of  the  white  cups-  of  the  bloodroot,  to  the  delight  of 
Marjorie,  who  had  never  seen  this  earliest  spring  flower 
before.  Mrs.  Ramsay  and  Miss  Mostyn  sat  near  the 
professor  with  their  knitting,  and  called  them  all  to 
headquarters  when  it  was  time  to  spread  the  luncheon 
in  the  sunny  glade  they  had  selected  for  that  purpose. 

When  luncheon  was  over  —  Robin  having  his  share 
as  well  as  the  rest  —  Professor  Duncan  took  up  the 
printed  paper,  and  proposed  to  read  the  little  parable. 

"I  like  its  meaning,''  he  said,  "and  it  is  very 
appropriate  to  this  sweet  spring  day  and  these  spring- 
flowers  that  you  girls  have  adorned  yourielves  with. 
I  suppose  you  would  rather  have  a  story  than  the 
botanical  lecture  I  was  thinking  of  giving  you?  '" 

There  was  no  dissent  from  this  suggestion,  and  the 
professor,  waiting  till  the  remains  of  the  luncheon  had 
been  removed,  began  the  reading  of  this  sjiring 
parable : 


344 


OPENING  BLOSSOMS. 


"  The  summer  had  filled  up  the  measure  of  its  days, 
and  finished  its  work.  Every  seed  had  ripened  and 
fallen,  every  fruit  was  garnered,  every  nut  hung  ready 
to  be  carried  by  the  squirrels  to  their  winter  store- 
houses. The  soft,  dreamy,  golden  sunshine  seemed  to 
wrap  all  nature  in  an  exquisite  repose,  as  of  satisfied 
rest  after  happy  and  successful  efPort.  The  Spirit  of 
the  Woods  looked  with  a  contented  smile  upon  the 
peaceful  beauty  of  the  scene,  which  left  nothing 
further  to  desire  or  to  hope  for ;  and  she,  too,  seemed 
to  yield  to  the  languorous  influence  about  her,  and  to 
rest  satisfied  with  mere  existence  in  the  sweet  and 
drowsy  stillness. 

"  Suddenly  she  became  conscious  of  a  strange  and 
subtle  change,  which  seemed  silently  to  pass  over  the 
face  of  this  dream-like  beauty.  The  golden  glow 
faded  out  of  the  sunshine,  a  strange  chillness  pervaded 
the  air,  and  one  by  one  the  delicate  blossoms  drooped 
and  faded,  while  cold  gray  clouds  hid  the  soft  blue 
of  the  summer  sky,  and  sobbing  gusts  of  wind  strewed 
the  grass  with  sere  and  withered  leaves,  that  but 
lately  had  been  waving,  fresh  and  green,  in  the  soft 
summer  breeze.  The  Spirit  of  the  Woods  looked 
with  dismay  at  the  sudden  id  mournful  blight  that 
had  touched,  with  a  destroying  spell,  the  perfect 
beauty  in  which  she  had  been  rejoicing,  and  she 
seemed  to  feel  the  presence  of  a  great  destroyer,  of 
whom  she  had  vaguely  heard  ;    before  whose  coming 


if. 


^ 


OPENING    BLOSSOMS. 


345 


all  the  beauty  of  the  earth  must  perish.  She  wept 
bitterly,  till  the  boughs  of  the  great  trees  drooped 
heavily  towards  the  earth,  and  the  crystal  tears 
dropped  from  the  feathery  sprays  of  the  hemlocks, 
and  sanl:  dovlti  into  the  earth,  to  refresh  the  soil  that 
had  become  parched  with  the  long  reign  of  unbroken 
sunshiie,  and  to  keep  the  roots  of  the  grass  and  the 
tender  plants  from  being  dried  up  for  lack  of 
moisture. 

"Then  there  came  a  day  that  gave  new  hope  and 
joy  to  the  drooping  heart  of  the  disconsolate  Spirit, 
and  made  her  feel  as  if,  after  all,  the  Destroyer  had 
been  overcome.  Perhaps  her  tears  liad  been  powerful 
to  drive  him  away.  At  all  events,  it  seemed  as  if  the 
reign  of  brightness  and  beauty  had  returned.  The 
sunshine  again  broke,  bright  and  golden,  through  a 
soft  morning  mist  that  seemed  to  bathe  all  nature  in 
the  freshness  of  spring.  And  when  it  shone  on  the 
forest,  there  gleamed  out  a  thousand  hues  of  amber 
and  gold  and  crimson  and  pur])le,  and  every  twig  and 
shrub  seemed  to  glisten  as  with  ruby  and  coral  in  the 
morning  sun,  in  which  many  a  '  burning  bush  '  shone 
with  almost  dazzling  radiance.  The  Spirit  of  the 
Woods  ffazed  in  astonishment  and  delight  at  the  won- 
drous  transfiguration  which  liad  clothed  with  new  and 
glorious  beauty  the  nature  that  had  seemed  ready  to 
droop  and  die. 

"  But    her   joy    was    short    lived  ;    lov    very   soon 


346 


OPENING   BLOSSOMS, 


again  the  gold  faded  out  of  the  sunshine,  and  instead 
of  the  soft,  brooding,  slumberous  calm  in  which  all 
the  living  creatures  had  seemed  to  bask  and  luxuri- 
ate, wild  gusts  again  began  to  sob  and  wail  through 
the  forest,  sweeping  away,  all  too  swiitly,  the  rich 
colors  from  the  trees  that  began  to  stretch  their  bare 
dark  boughs  appealingly  to  the  stormy  sky.  The 
bitter  north  wind  breathed  over  all  things  its  biting, 
nipping  air,  and  every  green  thing  sank  before  it  in 
blackened  decay.  The  grieved  and  disappointed 
Spirit  wept  again,  more  bitterly  than  before,  over  the 
desolation  of  her  kingdom  —  the  dead  and  dying- 
herbage,  the  swift  disappearance  of  the  glory  of  color 
that  had  seemed  to  crown  the  woodland  with  an 
aureole  of  brightness,  just  before  this  mournful 
shattering  of  her  hopes.  This  time  her  tears  as  they 
fell  were  caught  and  crystallized  by  the  tricky  frost 
spirit  into  an  exquisite,  sparkling  hoarfrost,  which  at 
least  beautified  the  advancing  desolation  which  it  could 
not  stay.  Day  by  day,  as  the  winds  blew  and  the 
rain  fell,  more  and  more  dying  leaves  fell  from  the 
trees,  and  dropped  sodden  on  the  yellow,  withered 
grass,  and  as  the  sad-hearted  Spirit  looked  over  her 
desolated  realm,  but  lately  so  rich  in  beauty,  she  could 
see  nothing  to  console  her.  But  even  as  she  sat  dis- 
consolate amid  the  brown  and  sere  remains  of  what 
had  been  such  luxuriant  verdure,  behold,  there  glided 
up  to  her  a  beautiful,  clear-eyed  spirit  called  Hope, 


OPENING    BLOSSOMS. 


347 


who  whispered  to  her  in  sweetest  tones  that,  iilthoii<:jh 
the  great  Destroyer  had  come,  despite  her  tears  and 
prayers,  there  woukl  yet  arise  a  great  and  powerfnl 
Restorer,  even  stronger  than  the  destroying  power 
that  had  wrought  such  evil  and  havoc ;  and  that  tliis 
Restoring  Spirit  woukl  bring  back  to  her  desolated 
woods  a  new  and  f  rer  beauty,  that  would  even  make 
her  forget  the  treasures  she  had  lost  and  was  now 
mourning. 

"So  the  Spirit  of  the  Woods  was  comforted,  and 
waited  patiently,  watching  always  for  the  promised 
approach  of  this  wonder-working  power.  One  night 
there  arose  the  sound  of  a  great  and  mighty  wind,  and 
as  it  rushed  through  the  forest,  bending  and  swaying 
the  great  trunks  and  branches,  driving  everything 
helplessly  before  its  resistless  strength,  the  expectant 
Spirit  wondered  whether  this  might  not  prove  to  be 
the  power  that  was  so  strong,  and  of  which  so  much 
was  to  be  expected.  But  its  strength  seemed  only  for 
destruction,  for  it  tore  up  even  large  trees,  that  were 
not  very  firndy  rooted,  and  snapped  asunder,  with  a 
loud  crash,  tall  and  strong  trunks,  while  it  ground  and 
crushed  the  tender  boughs  and  twigs,  and  left  the 
forest  more  bare  and  desolate  than  Ix'fore. 

"  Again  the  Spirit  watched  and  waited,  sorrowful 
for  the  havoc  she  could  not  prevent,  yet  still  hoping  for 
the  wonderful  Restorer  who  was  to  do  what  she  could 
scarcely  now  think  possible.     But  she  had  faith  in  the 


348 


OPENING    BLOSSOMS. 


\ 


is   K 


III 


promlser,  Hope,  and  whore  she  could  not  see,  she 
trusted.  One  clear  night,  when  everything  was  very 
still,  she  became  aware  of  the  silent  presence  of  a 
great  and  terrilde  Power.  The  svaftly  rushing  water, 
that  nothing  could  hold  back,  became  suddenly  cold 
and  lifeless,  then  solid  and  dark  like  a  jiiece  of  dead 
matter.  The  soft  brown  earth  became  hard  and  rugged 
as  iron.  No  one  could  ever  have  imagined  her  the 
gentle  mother  of  so  many  living  things.  '  Here  is  a 
power  mightier  even  than  the  wind,'  thought  the 
Spirit.  '  The  wind  could  only  lash  and  toss  the  water 
into  a  rage;  this  holds  it  in  chains  and  fetters.  But 
this  also  is  the  power  of  death,  not  of  life  I  '  And 
the  Spirit  sighed,  but  patiently  watched  and  waited 
still. 

"  By  and  by,  without  a  sound,  or  the  rustling  of  a 
dead  leaf,  a  strange,  soft,  white,  feathery  mist  de- 
scended on  all  the  bare,  dark  forest  and  hard,  iron, 
bound  soil.  Before  long  they  were  all  enwrapped  and 
shrouded  in  a  soft,  unearthly,  though  beautiful  gar- 
ment, that  seemed  to  be  an  etherealized  semblance  of 
the  beauty  of  its  summer  verdure.  Tenderly  the 
Spirit  of  the  Snow  wrapped  its  light,  fleecy  drapery 
about  the  interlacing  gray  boughs,  till  each  twig  and 
spray  seemed  to  stand  out  in  a  lovely  tracery  of  the 
purest  white,  which  glittered  in  the  sunlight  with  a 
more  dazzling  luster  than  that  of  ])earls  or  diamonds. 
As  the  Spirit  of  the  Woods  gazed  in  admiration,  she 
wondered  whether,  indeed,  this  could  be  the  new  res- 


OPENING    BLOSSOMS. 


349 


toration  of  beauty  that  had  been  promised  ;  but  she 
shivered  at  the  thought  that,  though  beautiful,  it  was 
cold  and  inanimate,  and  that  even  its  beauty  was  not 
the  beauty  of  life,  but  of  death.  And  even  while  she 
thought  this,  she,  too,  yielded  to  the  benumbing  spell 
that  seemed  to  have  overcome  all  things,  and  fell 
asleep. 

"  When  she  returned  to  consciousness,  it  seemed  as 
if  she  had  been  aroused  by  a  kiss  so  soft  and  warm, 
that  it  sent  a  thrill  through  all  her  being.  As  she 
looked  up,  she  forgot  even  to  think  about  the  promised 
Restorer,  so  lost  was  she  in  an  encompassing  and  pene- 
trating sense  of  awakening  life.  The  trees  still  showed 
their  leafless  boughs  against  the  sky,  but  there  was 
about  them  a  magical  presentiment  of  quickened  vital- 
ity; a  faint  feathering  out  of  swelling  buds,  which 
exhaled  the  most  exquisite  fragrance,  an  air  as  soft  as 
the  down  on  the  swan's  breast.  The  ground  was  still 
brown,  and  strewed  with  sodden  leaves ;  but  a  moist, 
sweet  odor  came  forth  from  the  "  unbound  earth,"  and 
myriads  of  tiny  green  points  and  shoots  were  rising 
and  expanding  themselves  in  every  direction.  As  the 
delighted  Spirit  looked  towards  some  moss-grown  rocks 
near  at  hand,  she  started  in  an  ecstasy,  for  in  their 
shelter  she  saw  an  exquisite  cluster  of  lovely  snow- 
white  cups,  gleaming  like  stars  out  of  their  deep,  rich 
green  leaves.  And  she  knew  it  for  a  parting  gift  left 
by  the  Spirit  of  the  Snow  to  show  how  her  purity  had 
entered  into  this   fresh  and   renewed  life.     And  all 


I   r 


350 


OPENING    BLOSSOMS. 


uround  the  woodland  was  studded  with  snow-whitt- 
phiiiies,  as  it'  the  snow  wreaths  were  still  clinging  to 
the  bare  shrubs  ;  only  this  snow  was  living  and  breath- 
ing the  fragrance  and  the  tenderness  of  oj)ening  life, 
blended  with  the  dazzling  i)urity  of  what  had  been  the 
cold  and  soulless  snow. 

"  As  she  looked  in  silent  wonder  and  delight,  a 
liquid,  melodious  trill  met  her  ear,  like  the  pure  note 
of  returning  life,  and  wherever  her  eye  turned  it  was 
ghiddened  by  bursting  buds  and  opening  flowers,  nearly 
all  of  the  same  dazzling  snowy  purity,  though  here 
and  there  their  fair  whiteness  was  just  tinted  by  some 
excpiisitely  delicate  coloring  ;  and  occasionally  a  blood- 
red  blossom  seemed  to  be  a  memorial  of  the  beautiful, 
but  mournful  glory  which  had  preceded  the  season  of 
sorrow  and  despair.  But  now  the  air  was  full  of  fresh 
hope  ;  the  sun  shone  warmly  with  a  soft,  sympathetic 
power  that  made  its  gentle  kiss  a  very  touch  of  life. 
The  music  of  a  thousand  streamlets  filled  the  air,  and 
the  song  birds  that  had  fled  before  the  Destroyer's 
approach,  were  caroling  joyously  from  every  bough. 
And  the  Spirit  of  the  Woods,  as  she  drew  in  a  long 
breath  of  the  sweet  reviving  air,  exclaimed,  '  Now  1 
know  that  the  power  of  love  and  life  is  forever  stronger 
than  the  fatal  force  of  death  and  destruction.'  " 


"  Well,  do  you  like 'the  Spirit  of  the  Woods  as  well 
as  the  Light  spirit?  "  asked  the  professor. 


(Jl'ENlNG    IlLOWSOMS. 


351 


*'  No,"  said  Marjorie  promptly.  "  She  was  very 
useless,  for  she  could  ouly  uioau  and  lament." 

'*  Oh,  well !  she's  cmly  intended  to  symbolize  Nature 
'travailing  in  i)iiin,'  as  she  is  now;  and  she  does  well 
enough  for  that.  15 ut  on  a  day  like  this  one  can  take 
in  the  lesson,  and  it's  the  very  one  I've  been  preaching 
to  you  in  my  stories  —  that  Love  is  the  only  power 
that  will  ever  appeal  to  the  luunan  heart." 

'"  Yes,  indeed,"  said  Miss  Mostyn  ;  "•  I  know  that 
by  experience,  if  I'm  not  a  professor.  Love  is  the 
only  thing  that  will  work  any  real  reformation,  even 
with  the  most  hardened." 

"  And  therefore,"  said  the  professor,  "•  I  for  one 
need  no  other  evidenc^e  that  the  Gospel  of  Love  came 
from  Ilim  who  made  the  heart  and  knows  how  to 
touch  it." 

But  Norman  and  Effie  were  rather  im])atient  of  the 
quiet  talk ;  and  very  soon  they  all  went  on  an  expedi- 
tion to  look  at  the  military  buildings  on  the  eastern 
end  of  the  island,  where  a  regular  garrison  used  to  be 
posted,  but  where  now  almost  absolute  solitude  reigns. 

"  So  may  it  be  with  all  our  fortifications  every- 
where," said  the  professor.  "•  There  ought  to  be  no 
more  need  for  them." 

Then  they  began  to  talk  of  Ilelcne  de  Champlain, 
and  to  wonder  how  the  island  looked  when  she  first 
fancied  it. 

"  I'm  sure  I  think  she  might  have  been  very  con- 


f^ 


' ; 


i 


■  \ 


352 


OPENING    liLOS80M8. 


ri  I 


tented  in  Canada,"  said  Millie,  "  with  such  a  pretty 
island  all  for  her  own." 

"  I  think  HO  too,"  said  Professor  Duncan. 

When  Dr.  Hamsay  arrived  they  boiled  the  kettle 
with  a  spirit  lamp,  and  had  afternoon  tea  by  the  shore. 
There  were  several  otiier  picnic  j)arties  on  the  island, 
but  it  is  so  lar««v  tliat  they  did  not  disturb  each  other. 
The  children  had  lovely  bunches  of  wild  flowers  to 
carry  back,  as  they  stepped  aboard  the  ferry  boat  to 
return  in  the  glowing-  sunset,  the  city  before  them 
lighted  up  with  the  golden  flood  of  radiance,  and  the 
distant  hills  transflgured,  too,  with  its  transient  glory. 

The  little  ones,  with  their  flowers,  were  driven  back 
by  the  doctor,  who  had  left  his  horse  at  the  nearest 
convenient  place,  and  the  others  walked  leisurely  home 
in  the  pleasant  spring  twilight.  To  Marjorie,  notwith- 
standing her  father's  absence,  her  fourteenth  birthday 
seemed  the  pleasantest  she  had  ever  known. 


}.      i; 


'iJ 


~"~'   -—"'•■ — 


CHAPTER  XIX. 


EASTWARD,     Ho! 


Mr.  Fleming's  tour  among  the  West  India  Islands 
had  been  ratlier  more  protracted  than  lie  had  at  first 
intended  ;  and  he  wished  to  visit  several  interesting 
])oints  in  the  South  before  returning  northward.  It 
would  be,  he  wrote  to  Marjorie,  'Inly,  at  any  rate, 
before  he  could  join  her  in  Montreal.  Her  cousins 
were  delighted  at  this,  for  they  had  been  afraid  lest  he 
might  come  for  Marjorie  before  they  went  to  Murray 
Bay,  where  they  always  spent  the  summer  holidays, 
in  one  of  the  country  cottages  near  that  pleasant  sj)ot. 
They  had  told  Marjorie  a  great  deal  about  its  nuiiiifold 
beauties  and  delights,  so  that  the  pleasure  of  looking 
forward  to  these  counteracted  the  disappointment  of 
her  father's  protracted  absence  ;  and  they  were  all 
eagerly  anticipating  the  first  week  in  July. 

Ada  was  getting  on  very  well,  but  the  doctor  rec- 
ommended a  change  to  country  air  as  soon  as  pos- 
sible. She  had  been  hearing  so  much  about  Murray 
Bay  from  the  Ramsays  and  Marjorie,  that  she  fixed 

35^ 


354 


EASTW  AKD,    HO 


r 


m ' 


S':" 


her  affections  on  that  2>hice  at  once,  and  the  doctor 
said  that  nothing  could  be  better  than  the  bracing  air 
thtre,  though  the  water,  unfortunately,  would  be  too 
cold  to  admit  of  her  bathing.  Mrs.  West  had  been 
there  occasionally  when  her  children  were  younger, 
and  as  a  general  thing  she  preferred  to  go  to  the 
livelier  American  watering  places  ;  but  as  Ada  had 
taken  a  fancy  to  go  to  Murray  Bay,  and  as  she  cer- 
tainly was  hardly  fit  for  a  long  and  fatiguing  railway 
journey,  the  convenience  of  a  i)lace  accessible  by 
stea-ner  decided  the  matter.  And  Ada  soon  had  the 
satisfaction  of  informing  Marjorie  that  her  father  had 
secured  a  furnished  house  for  a  few  weeks,  wliere  she 
hoped  Marjorie  would  spend  part  of  her  time  with  her, 
when  they  were  all  down  there  together. 

Another  little  project  the  two  girls  discussed  with 
great  interest.  Louis  Oirard  had  some  relatives  not 
far  from  Murray  Bay,  and  if  they  could  take  him  jind 
his  mother  down  there  to  their  friends  in  the  country, 
it  would  be  the  very  thing  to  recruit  them  both.  It 
would  be,  too,  Ada  said,  the  nicest  sort  of  reward 
to  give  the  little  fellow  for  finding  Robin,  though 
perhaps  it  would  be  more  correct  to  say  that  Robin 
found  him. 

Dr.  Ramsay  had  often  told  Marjorie  of  the  "  Fresh 
Air  Fund  "  in  Montreal,  for  taking  poor  children  out 
to  the  country ;  so  she  suggested  that  they  should 
start  a  little  ''  Fresh  Air  Fund  "  for  little  Louis.     The 


EASTWARD,    HO ! 


355 


It 


aid 


"  Fund  "  became  very  popular.  Gerald  and  Ada  put 
into  it  almost  all  their  pocket-money,  the  latter  limit- 
ing her  expenditure  in  candy  to  a  wonderful  degree. 
Marjorie  put  in  all  that  she  could  save  from  what  her 
father  sent  her  for  necessary  expenses.  Mrs.  West 
dropped  in  a  five  dollar  bill,  and  the  young  Ramsays 
each  contributed  their  mite  ;  and  very  soon  they  had 
collected  quite  enough  for  the  purpose.  And  as  Dr. 
Ramsay  wanted  to  get  Louis  to  the  salt  water  as 
soon  as  possible,  he  and  his  mother  were  sent  off  with 
the  first  detachment  that  went  down  under  the  care  of 
the  "■  Fresh  Air  Society."  Both  were  delighted  ;  the 
mother  crying  with  pleasure  at  the  prospect  of  seeing 
her  old  home  and  her  relatives  again. 

Alan  had  got  his  surveying  appointment,  and  had 
started  with  his  party;  but  Gerald  wa  too  much 
needed  at  home  to  allow  of  his  being  spared.  As 
Dick  could  not  be  much  depended  en,  and  was,  more- 
over, needed  by  his  father  in  the  office,  Gerald  must 
take  care  of  his  mother  and  sister  when  they  went  to 
Murray  Bay,  where  they  were  to  have  with  them  an 
aunt  and  two  cousins  or  Ada's.  And  as  they  had 
several  other  friends  who  took  summer  cottages  at 
Murray  Bay,  there  would  be  no  lack  of  pleasant 
society.  The  Ramsays'  usual  resort  was  two  or  three 
miles  from  the  hotels  and  little  settlement  of  summer 
cottages,  on  the  opposite  shore  of  the  bay.  But  tlie 
Wests  were  to  take  down  a  phaeton  to  drive,  and  with 


Uu; 


356 


EASTWARD,    HO ! 


j'  I 


Gerald's  and  Ada's  ponies,  there  would  be  no  difficulty 
in  having  frequent  meetings,  even  if  the  charming 
walk  were  too  much  for  the  invalid. 

June  passed  rapidly  and  pleasantly  by.  Marjorie 
went  to  school  as  usual,  and  had  now  set  diligently  to 
work  at  her  crayon  head,  though  the  weather  was 
not  very  favorable  for  indoor  application.  Ada  was 
taken  out  for  a  drive  every  day,  and  Marjorie  was  her 
frequent  companion.  Their  drive  was  usually  thi 
delightful  one  round  the  Mountain  Park,  with  its 
lovely  views  of  city,  river  and  country,  on  both  sides 
of  the  noble  hill.  Sometimes  they  drove  through  the 
beautiful  cemetery,  where  the  quiet  sleepers  rest  under 
such  a  bowery  shade  of  stately  trees ;  and  occuf^ionally 
Gerald  and  Marjorie  had  a  ride,  sometimes  up  the 
"  mountain,"  sometimes  along  the  smooth  surface  of  the 
Lachine  Road,  with  it,,  green  fields  and  tall  elms  and 
glimpses  of  Dutch  canal  scenery,  and  the  tall,  gray 
French  spire  of  Lachine  rising  above  the  trees. 

Everywhere  there  was  the  fresh  beauty  of  June ; 
even  in  the  city  itself,  where  the  gardens  were  aglow 
with  flowers  and  blossoming  shrubs,  and  many  of  the 
streets,  especially  those  leading  up  to  the  "  mountain," 
were  like  bosky  avenues  ;  and  the  "  mountain  "  itself 
had  shaken  out  its  luxuriant  mantle  of  green,  and  rose 
behind  the  city,  twice  as  ^tately  in  its  summer  robes 
as  in  its  cold  wintry  garb.  In  fact  it  seemed  scarcely 
possible  lo  realize  that  the  Montreal  of  June  and  the 


I 


10 

5> 


IC 


i! 


t 


EASTWAliD,    HO  I 


357 


Montreal    of   the    Carnival    were   one  and    the  same 
place.  . 

Professor  Duncan  went  away  in  June  to  Quebec, 
where  he  usually  spent  most  of  the  summer,  and 
where  he  promised  to  take  care  of  Marjorie,  and  show 
her  much  of  the  historic  city,  if  she  would  come  on  a  day 
or  two  in  advance  of  the  family  party,  who  could  not  con- 
veniently linger  on  the  way.  Before  he  left,  however, 
an  early  morning  expedition  was  arranged  to  go  down 
the  Lachine  Rapids,  as  Gerald  had  suggested.  He 
and  the  professor  acted  as  escorts,  and  Marion,  Mar- 
jorie and  Millie  started  about  six  o'clock  on  a  lovely 
June  morning,  after  a  hasty  breakfast,  to  meet  their 
escorts  at  the  Bonaventure  Station. 

The  train  had  soon  whisked  them  out  to  Lachine, 
where  they  stepped  out  on  the  pier  where  the  steam- 
boat lay  on  wliich  they  were  to  descend  the  rapids. 
Above  stretched  the  wide  Lake  of  St.  Louis  —  the 
expansion  of  the  river  above  the  rapids,  which  for- 
merly bore  the  same  name.  As  they  steamed  away 
from  the  village,  with  its  large  stone  church  and  Pres- 
hijtere^  and  line  of  houses  stretching  along  the  lake 
shore.  Professor  Duncan  pointed  out  the  Indian  village 
of  Caughnawaga,  on  the  opposite  bank  of  the  river, 
just  below  the  lake,  and  told  Marjorie  something  of 
the  romantic  and  tragic  career  of  Robert  de  la  Salle, 
the  first  feudal  lord  of  Lachine.  The  very  name  of 
the  place  was,  he  said,  a  memorial  of  this  adventurer's 


I 


358 


EASTWARD,    Ho! 


ambitious  dreiiin  of  finding  a  short  way  by  water 
across  the  continent  to  India  and  China.  It  was  in  a 
spirit  of  derision  that  his  jealous  enemies  gave  this 
name  to  the  seigniory  here,  given  to  him  by  the  eccle- 
siastical body  which  then  owned  Montreal,  on  condition 
that  he  should  build  and  maintain  a  fort  there,  which 
might  help  to  keep  off  the  raids  of  the  murderous 
Iroquois.  And  he  told  her  that  there  were  still  relics 
there  of  La  Salle's  old  house  and  fortification.  But 
La  Salle  was  a  born  explorer,  he  said,  and  soon  sold 
his  seigniory  here  that  he  might  go  farther  West,  and 
devote  his  life  to  his  cherished  project  of  finding  a 
water  way  to  the  Pacific. 

The  professor  also  told  briefly  how,  after  a  long 
succession  of  arduous  labors,  toilsome  journeys  and 
heart-breaking  disappointn^ents,  he  at  last  realized 
his  dream  of  finding  the  Mississippi  River,  following 
it  to  the  GnU"  >f  Mexico,  a'^d  taking  pt)ssession  of  this 
great  rich  Western  and  Southern  country  in  the  name 
of  his  king,  the  great  Louis  the  Fourteenth.  But 
even  in  the  realization  of  his  dream  he  was  doomed  to 
disappointment.  The  jealousy  of  his  foes  and  the 
forces  of  nature  seemed  to  be  banded  against  him,  and 
after  twenty  years  of  labors  and  l)ravely-borne  dis- 
appointments, he  fell  in  the  wilds  of  Texas  by  the  bidlet 
of  a  traitorous  follower  wliile  trying  to  secure  succor  for 
an  ill-fated  colony  he  had  led  to  that  southern  shore. 

Marjorie  listened    to    the  professors  brief    outline 


EASTWARD,    Ho! 


359 


with  the  greater  Interest,  because  it  seemed  to  int(u-- 
weave  with  tlie  history  of  the  place  that  of  her  own 
native  hind,  and  establislied  an  unexpected  link  of 
association  between  this  Canadian  village  and  that 
tropical  Louisiana  of  which  she  had  been  reading  so 
much  in  her  father's  letters,  and  both  of  which  draw 
their  French  character  and  coloring  from  the  same  old 
brave  explorers. 

But  they  were  nearing  the  rapids  now,  and  the 
present  excitement  crowded  out  every  other  thought. 
These  rapids  do  not  look  so  grand  and  formidable  as 
some  of  the  other  rapids  of  the  St.  Lawrence,  and  just 
at  first  Marjorie  felt  greatly  disappointed.  But  when 
they  got  fairly  into  the  strong  grasp  and  swirl  of  the 
water  that  looks  so  deceitfully  quiet,  and  were  carried 
on  at  headlong  speed  past  the  bare  black  rocks  that 
almost  graze  the  steamer's  side,  and  saw  the  strong 
white  breakers  that  here  leap  up  as  if  to  catch  it  and 
drag  it  to  destruction,  it  was  exciting  enough  ;  and  she 
almost  held  her  breath  till  they  had  stemmed  the  rag- 
ing snrges  below  the  rocks,  and  had  emerged  into  the 
calm,  though  still  swift  current  near  the  tranquil 
beauty  of  Nun's  Island  —  quite  an  appropriate  name, 
Marjorie  thought,  for  an  island  that  seemed  such  an 
embodiment  of  rejwse,  contrasted  with  the  angry  and 
troubled  waters  just  above. 

The  view  of  the  city,  with  its  mountain  background, 
was  lovely  in  the  fresh,  bright  morning  light,  as  they 


3G0 


EASTWARD,    HO  ! 


steamed  under  the  huge  Victoria  Bridge,  and  swei)t 
round  to  the  quay.  And  then  this  little  expedition, 
so  unique  to  Marjorie,  was  over  already.  She  stepped 
off  the  steamboat  reluctantly,  glad  that^^  she  could  look 
forward  to  having  soon  more  enjoyable  travel  on  the 
same  noble  river. 

The  weather  was  growing  very  warm  in  Montreal, 
even  before  the  end  of  June.  Marjorie  felt  it  difficult 
to  fix  her  thoughts  on  her  studies,  and  her  energy  was 
growing  rather  languid.  Ada  was  suffering  from 
prostration  caused  by  the  heat,  and  grew  more  fretful 
than  she  had  been  since  the  first  days  of  convalescence. 
Preparations  were  hurried  on,  and  one  fine  evening  \v. 
the  end  of  June,  Marjorie  found  herself  on  board  the 
large  Quebec  steamboat,  with  her  aunt.  Jack  and 
Gerald,  who  were  going  down  in  advance  of  their 
respective  parties,  to  have  all  things  in  readiness. 
Marjorie  was  to  be  left  at  Quebec  with  Professor 
Duncan  till  the  others  came  on,  two  days  later,  when 
she  was  to  join  them  on  the  Saguenay  steamer. 

They  had  a  beautitid  calm  evening,  with  a  growing 
moon,  as  they  sailed  down  the  wide  stream  of  the  St. 
Lawrence,  watching  the  "  mountain  "  till  it  rose  dimly 
blue  in  the  distance.  To  Marjorie  it  was  associated 
with  so  much  enjoyment,  that  to  lose  sight  of  it  at 
last  seemed  like  bidding  good-by  to  an  old  friend. 
Her  aunt  insisted  on  her  going  off  early  to  her  state- 
room,   notwithstanding    the    beauty    of    the    .summer 


EASTWARD,    HO ! 


361 


night ;  for  there  wouhl  be  far  more  to  see  in  the 
morning,  and  she  wouhl  have  to  be  up  about  five,  not 
to  miss  the  fine  scenery  just  above  Quebec. 

When  she  came  out  on  deck  in  the  cool,  fresh 
morning,  the  river  scenery  was  completely  different. 
Instead  of  tlu^  low  flat  shore  near  Montreal,  the  sun 
shone  on  h!;h  wooded  banks,  dotted  with  gleaming 
white  villages  and  church  spires,  and  away  in  the  di.i- 
tance,  beyond  a  misty  bluff  wliich  they  said  was  the 
rock  of  Quebec,  stretched  a  vista  of  stately  blue  hills. 
Mrs.  Ramsay  and  Gerald  were  out  already.  Her  aunt, 
who  of  course  knew  the  shore  well,  pointed  out  the 
pretty  little  nook  where  the  Cap  Kouge  River  comes 
out  between  its  protecting  hills,  and  where  an  unsuc- 
cessful colony  was  planted,  before  Champlain  founded 
Quebec. 

By  and  by  they  drew  nearer  the  regal  old  city,  and 
Marjorie  could  discern  the  outline  of  the  rock  and 
citadel,  with  the  mast-studded  river  and  great  Atlantic 
steamers  lying  at  Point  Levis,  on  the  other  side  of 
the  channel,  which  there  is  only  about  a  mile  wide. 
Mrs.  Ramsay  pointed  out  a  picturesque  little  French 
village,  lying  in  the  shelter  of  the  high  wooded  bank 
above  Quebec,  and  told  her  that  that  was  Sillery,  the 
spot  where  a  religious  establishment  had  been  founded 
by  an  old  knight  of  Malta,  and  where  the  devoted  hos- 
])ital  nuns  had  first  established  themselves  when  they 
joined  the  Canadian  mission.     And  she  told  her  that 


302 


EASTWARD,    IIO  ! 


if] 


when  Madame  de  la  Peltrle,  a  noble  lady  who  was  one  of 
the  first  to  come  out  to  work  for  the  conversion  of  tlie 
Indians,  and  two  or  three  of  the  nuns  who  acconi})anicd 
her,  first  visited  this  spot  and  saw  their  little  Indian 
pupils,  they  were  so  glad,  that  they  seized  and  kissed 
every  little  Indian  girl  within  their  reach  ;  "  without 
minding,"  so  Pere  Le  Jeune  said,  "whether  they 
were  dirty  or  not.  For,"  he  added,  "  love  and  charity 
triumphed  over  every  human  consideration." 

As  the  steamer  stopped  at  her  dock,  just  under  the 
dark  gray  rock  of  Cape  Diamond,  with  Dufferin 
Terrace  and  the  citadel  high  above  their  heads,  Mar- 
jorie  and  her  friends  had  no  time  to  stop  and  enjoy 
the  view  of  the  tall  quaint  houses  or  busy  harbor. 
Professor  Duncan  was  waiting  for  IVIarjorie,  and  the 
Saguenay  boat  was  waiting  for  the  others.  Very  soon 
they  were  separated,  and  the  steamer  rapidly  receded 
down  the  river,  while  the  professor  and  Marjorie  drove 
np  the  steep  hill  in  one  of  the  quaint  little  French 
('(fJeches  that  are  just  made  for  these  hilly  roads,  with 
their  two  wheels  and  strong  springs,  and  the  sure- 
footed ponies  that  draw  them. 

As  soon  as  they'  had  breakfasted  at  the  house  of 
Professor  Duncan's  hospitable  hostess,  where  Marjorie 
caught  glimpses  of  charming  mountain  views  in  every 
direction,  they  set  out  on  their  round  of  sightseeing. 

Professor  Duncan  took  her  first  to  the  spacious 
Dufferin  Terrace  close  by,  from  which  she  could  see 


EASTWARD,    Ho! 


3615 


the  beautiful  panorama  around  her ;  the  river  winding 
down  on  both  sides  of  the  purple  woods  of  the  Island 
of  Orleans,  the  distant  hills  changing  eolor  with  the 
passing  of  the  light  fleecy  clouds  ;  the  wooded  heights 
of  Levis  opposite  crowned  with  villages  and  steeples  ; 
and  just  below  the  busy  harbor  and  the  quaint,  grimy 
old  town. 

The  professor  pointed  out  Champlain  market  just 
below  them,  telling  her  that  thereabouts  had  stood 
that  first  "  H<ihitatlon  da  Champlain,,'"  which  had  been 
one  of  his  "  Scenes  of  Christmas  Past."  And  Mar- 
jorie  tried  to  fancy  the  busy  city  gone,  and  the 
primitive  little  settlement  under  the  hill,  just  as  it  was 
when  Champlain  cultivated  his  roses  in  his  garden 
below.  On  the  ground  beliind  the  Terrace,  the  pro- 
fessor said,  stood  the  old  Chateau  of  St.  Louis,  wliere 
Champlain  died. 

From  the  Terrace  they  mounted  to  the  glacis  of  the 
citadel  and  found  their  way  round  to  the  entrance, 
catching  different  views  all  along  their  way.  Marjorie 
was  bewildered  bv  the  great  walls  and  ditch  of  the  old 
fortress,  and  delighted  beyond  expression  by  the  mag- 
nificent view  from  the  "  King's  Bastion,"  commanding 
such  a  sweep  of  charming  landscape  scenery  —  blue 
mountains,  rich  woods,  fertile  fields,  gleaming  villages 
and  winding  river.  From  the  other  bastion,  bearing 
the  name  and  crest  of  the  Prince  of  Wales,  the  pro- 
fessor pointed  out  the  rugged    stretch  of  green  just 


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364 


EASTWARD,    Ho! 


below  and  beyond,  and  told  her  that  those  were  the 
**  Plains  of  Abraham,"  where  Wolfe  had  fallen,  after 
fighting  the  decisive  battle  which  won  Canada  from 
the  French. 

Coming  down  from  the  citadel,  they  strolled  round 
the  ramparts,  crossed  the  quiet  green  esplanade,  in- 
spected the  new  stately  gates,  and  the  fine  new  Parlia- 
ment buildings  outside  the  walls.  And  wherever  they 
went,  there  were  such  charming  views  of  gray-blue  hills 
receding  beyond  each  other  to  the  horizon,  and  blue, 
sail-studded  river  and  woodland,  and  long  fields  and 
white  villages,  that  Marjorie  could  have  gazed  all  day. 
Near  St.  John*s  Gate  the  professor  stopped  and  showed 
her  how  the  St.  Charles  wound  out  from  among  the 
hills  till  it  met  the  St.  Lawrence  at  the  city;  and 
showing  her  a  green  point  round  which  this  small 
river  made  a  silver  loop,  he  told  her  that  that  was  the 
site  of  Pere  Le  Jeune's  little  convent  —  Notre  Dame 
des  Anges ;  and  that  in  the  stream  close  by  Cartier 
had  laid  up  his  ships  during  that  terrible  winter. 

After  dinner,  as  Marjorie  declared  that  she  was  not 
at  all  fatigued,  they  drove  out  by  the  St.  Foy  road, 
past  charming  villas  and  gardens,  and  back  by  the  St. 
Louis  road.  They  drove  down  to  the  pretty  little 
village  of  Sillery,  under  the  cliflF,  and  there  the  pro- 
fessor pointed  out,  under  a  spreading  elm,  thr  French 
inscription  that  marks  the  spot  of  the  "  first  Convent 
of  the  Hospital  Nuns."     He  showed  her,  too,  the  old 


EASTWARD,    HO  I 


365 


house  that  still  stands,  built  in  those  early  days  for 
the  Mission ;  and  near  it  the  white  monument  of 
Enemond  Masse  —  the  "/?ere  utile  ^*  who  was  the  first 
of  the  pioneer  missionaries  to  go  to  his  rest. 

As  they  returned,  the  professor  dismissed  their 
carriage  at  the  toll  gate  near  Wolfe's  Monument. 
They  stopped  to  look  at  it  and  read  the  simple  inscrip- 
tion: "  Hei'e  died  Wolfe  Victorious  ;  "  with  the  date, 
"  1759."  Then  they  walked  across  the  green,  uneven 
meadow,  and  the  professor  pointed  out  where  Wolfe 
had  scrambled  up  the  height  among  the  rough  bushes, 
leading  his  men  to  the  unexpected  and  successful 
attack  which  wrested  from  the  French  their  hardly 
won  and  heroically  kept  colony.  And  as  they  walked 
back,  he  gave  her  a  few  particulars  of  the  battle,  and 
how  the  brave  Wolfe  had  asked  "  Who  run  ? "  and 
being  told  that  it  was  the  French,  said,  "  Then  I  die 
happy,"  and  quietly  expired. 

In  the  evening  they  went  to  enjoy  the  sunset  from 
Duiferin  Terrace,  where  the  band  plays  on  fine  sununer 
evenings.  As  they  strolled  up  and  down,  watching 
the  rich,  soft  sunset  tints  fading  from  the  distant  hills 
and  the  caLn  river,  the  professor  talked  of  the  old 
times  of  Quebec,  and  the  brave  deeds  and  high  hopes 
that  were  associated  with  those  old  rocks  and  hills. 
And  as  they  noticed  the  stately  forms  of  some  long- 
robed  ecclesiastics  walking  by  in  the  gathering  dusk, 
Marjorie  could  easily  have  conjured  up  the  shade  o£ 


366 


EASTWARD,   HO  I 


Pere  Le  Jeune  and  his  brave  comrades,  revisiting  "  the 
glimpses  of  the  moon." 

Next  day  the  professor  drove  Marjorie  down  to 
Montmorency  Falls,  past  the  long  line  of  pretty  little 
French  cottages  and  old-fashioned  gardens  that  line 
the  Beaupavt  Road.  They  walked  across  to  the  brow 
of  the  cliff,  and  down  the  dizzy  flight  of  steps,  getting 
different  views  of  the  great,  snowy  cataract  dashing 
down  the  steep  amid  its  showers  of  spray  that  bedewed 
the  tall  dark  pines,  which  made  such  an  effective  set- 
ting to  the  snowy  sheet  of  the  foaming  cataract.  Then 
they  dined  at  the  little  inn,  and  strolled  about  the  lovely 
grounds  close  to  the  Falls  —  whose  proprietor  was  an 
acquaintance  of  the  professor  —  and  walked  back  up 
the  lupid  brown  stream  of  the  Montmorency  till  they 
reached  the  "Natural  Steps  "  ;  the  succession  of  brown 
ledges  over  which  this  mountain  torrent  dashes  down 
to  join  the  St.  Lawrence.  In  the  evening  they  had  a 
charming  drive  home,  with  the  tin  roofs  of  Quebec 
before  them  glittering  like  a  golden  palace  in  the  rich 
sunset  light. 

Marjorie  was  enchanted  with  Quebec,  and  could 
have  lingered  there  for  days.  She  would  have  liked 
a  longer  peep  at  the  "  Basilica  "  — as  the  Cathedral  is 
called  —  and  at  the  Ursuline  Convent  Chapel,  where 
the  hush  seemed  as  remote  from  ordinary  life  as  the 
light  still  kept  burning  in  memory  of  a  French  girl 
who  died  a  hundred  years  ago.     And  she  was  fascinated 


EASTWARD,    HO ! 


367 


by  the  thought  that  still  where  the  convent  stood 
was  the  very  same  old  garden  where  Madame  de  la 
Peltrie  and  her  nuns  sat  and  taught  the  little  Indian 
girls  centuries  ago. 

It  would  be  charming  to  come  back  here  with  ht?r 
father,  she  thought,  and  now  she  could  be  his  guide, 
as  Professor  Duncan  had  been  hers,  to  the  historic 
associations  of  this  cradle  of  the  life  of  Canada. 

But  her  friends  expected  her  to  join  them  at  the 
Saguenay  boat  next  morning.  And  thither  accord- 
ingly Professor  Duncan  and  she  again  drove  down  in 
a  caleche.  Mrs.  West  and  Ada,  with  Dick  in  charge, 
and  her  cousins  under  Marion's  supervisicirs,  and  an 
enormous  pile  of  luggage,  were  being  transferred  from 
the  one  steamboat  to  the  other.  All  were  delighted  to 
greet  Marjorie ;  and  saying  a  hurried  and  grateful 
good-by  to  the  professor,  they  were  off,  and  gliding 
away  from  the  stately  city,  and  along  the  populous 
shore  of  the  Island  of  Orleans. 


CHAPTER   XX. 


AMONG     THE     HILLS. 


Charming,  indeed,  was  the  sail  down  the  glorious 
river,  past  the  grand  wooded  hills  that  rose  in  stately 
procession,  one  behind  the  other,  as  they  steamed 
rapidly  northeastward.  These  looked  more  and  more 
lonely  as  they  got  farther  down,  and  the  white  villages 
and  solitary  houses  that  dotted  them  for  a  great  part 
of  the  way,  grew  farther  and  farther  apart.  Occasion- 
ally, however,  a  white  cluster  of  houses  would  be  seen 
almost  at  the  summit  of  a  high,  rugged  hill,  clothed 
throughout  with  fir  and  birch ;  though  more  often,  as 
they  proceeded,  these  were  one  huge  mass  of  green. 
Tlie  high  piers  by  which  the  steamer  occasionally 
stopped  to  disembark  freight  or  passengers,  astonished 
Marjorie,  till  reminded  that  they  were  now  in  water 
which  was  constantly  rising  or  falling  with  the  tide. 
About  three  o'clock  in  the  afternoon  they  came  in 
sight  of  the  long,  tall  pier  of  Murray  Bay,  where, 
amid  the  expectant  crowd  that  always  awaits  the 
steamer  there,  they  soon  discovered  Gerald,  with  Mrs. 

368 


'  I 


AMONG   TH£   HILLS. 


369 


IS 

y 
(I 

•e 
»s 
•t 


Ramsay  and  Jack.  The  pony  phaeton  was  got  out  of 
the  boat  as  soon  as  possible,  and  Gerald  drove  his 
sister  to  their  temporary  home,  about  a  mile  from  the 
landing,  just  under  the  brow  of  the  hill  that  runs 
along  the  curving  shore  of  the  beautiful  bay.  Oppo- 
site was  Cap  a  L^Aigle,  where  the  Ramsay:*  cottage 
stood,  and  at  the  head  of  the  bay  a  white  church  spire 
marked  the  French  village  of  Murray  Bay,  which  is 
quite  distinct  from  Point  au  Pic,  where  the  hotels 
and  summer  cottages  stand. 

Marjorie  was  to  stay  with  Ada  for  the  first  day  or 
two,  at  least ;  so  she  bade  good-by  to  her  cousins  as 
they  stepped  merrily  into  the  little  French  hay  cart 
which  was  to  carry  them  to  their  destination.  Ada 
was  delighted  with  the  novelty  of  the  simple  country 
house,  with  little  or  no  furniture,  but  full  of  the  sweet 
fresh  mountain  air,  and  lovely  views  of  hill  and  sea ; 
as  the  expanse  of  river  appeared  to  be,  with  its  tide- 
uncovered  beach.  Then  the  green  partially  wooded 
hill  rose  just  at  the  back  of  their  little  inclosure,  and 
all  they  had  to  do  was  to  stroll  away  up  the  grassy 
slope  and  find  a  more  charming  and  extensive  view  at 
every  step.  Every  hour  of  the  bracing  air  seemed  to 
bring  new  strength  to  Ada,  and  she  was  impatiently 
waiting  permission  to  mount  her  pony  and  ride  off 
among  those  lovely  hills  with  Gerald. 

Marjorie  set  off  in  the  pony  phaeton  with  Gerald,  a 
day  or  two  after,  to  go  to  her  cousins  at  Cap  a  UAigle, 


370 


AMONG   TU£   UlLLS. 


It  did  not  seem  very  far,  looking  across  the  brown 
sandy  beach  and  soft  blue  strip  of  river,  to  the  bold 
bluff  stretchin<»;  far  out  seaward  on  the  other  side. 
But  they  had  to  drive  round  the  bay,  past  the  continu- 
ous line  of  little  French  farmhouses  and  strips  of 
upland  farm,  past  the  queer  earthen  ovens  that  stood 
by  the  roadside,  through  the  quaint  French  village 
that  lay  on  both  sides  of  the  bridge  that  spanned  the 
shallow  brown  Murray  River,  and  then  up  along  the 
foot  of  wooded  hills  to  the  brow  of  the  long  grassy 
bluff.  The  view  on  both  sides  was  magnificent, 
whether  they  looked  landward  into  the  vista  of  hills 
beyond  hills,  or  across  the  river  to  the  distant  hills  on 
the  other  side,  or  eastward  to  the  ocean-like  horizon. 
Dr.  Ramsay  loved  this  pluce  so  well  because,  he  said, 
it  reminded  him  strongly  of  the  highland  scenery  of 
his  native  land. 

The  Ramsays'  cottage  was  a  small  one,  and  very 
plain  and  bare ;  but  the  children  rushed  to  meet  her 
in  great  spirits,  to  tell  her  of  all  the  fun  they  had  had 
already.  And  only  the  day  before,  they  said,  Louis 
Girard  and  his  mother  had  come  in  a  little  country 
wagon  to  see  them,  and  had  been  so  disappointed  that 
"  Mademoiselle  was  not  there." 

It  would  be  pleasant  to  tell  more  particularly  of 
all  the  delights  of  the  next  three  or  four  weeks  ;  the 
rides  and  drives,  the  canoeing  on  the  river,  the  picnics 
to  the  pretty  waterfalls  in  the  vicinity.     But  all  this 


AMONG   THE   HILLS. 


371 


must  be  left  to  the  imagination  of  the  lover  of  pict- 
uresque scenery.  ?Iarjorie  was  delighted,  at  least,  if 
her  cousins  were  not,  when  a  letter  arrived  from  her 
father,  telling  her  that  he  was  on  his  way  northward, 
and  would  reach  her  almost  as  soon  as  his  letter.  It 
need  scarcely  be  said  that  she  was  eagerly  watching 
at  the  pier  when  the  steamer's  smoke  was  seen  in  the 
distance,  rounding  the  promontory  above ;  and  that 
when  it  drew  near  enough  at  last  to  admit  of  distin- 
guishing the  figures  on  board,  her  eye  soon  detected 
the  familiar  figure  that  was  as  eagerly  looking  out 
for  her.  And  when  she  was  once  more  clasped  in 
his  embrace,  and  his  familiar  tones  were  in  her  ear, 
she  could  scarcely  believe  that  he  had  been  so  long 
away. 

Mr.  Fleming  was  as  delighted  as  Marjorie  had  an- 
ticipated with  the  charming  scenery  of  Murray  Bay. 
He  and  she  had  many  pleasant  walks  together,  in 
addition  to  the  more  extensive  family  expeditions,  dur- 
ing which  she  unfolded  to  him  the  various  experiences 
of  the  past  months,  so  much  more  fully  than  she  could 
do  in  letters.  And  he  was  astonished  to  find  how 
much  she  had  grown  in  mind  and  character,  and  how 
much  she  knew,  thanks  to  Professor  Duncan,  of  the 
old  heroic  age  of  Canada. 

Gerald  and  he  had  many  talks,  too,  and  Mr.  Fleming 
was  much  interested  in  the  thoughtful,  ambitious  lad, 
who   reminded  him  strongly  of   his  own  early  self. 


372 


AMONG   THE    HILLS. 


One  evening  the  three  were  walking  up  from  Cap  a 
IJ Aigle  to  Murray  Bay,  after  one  of  the  frequent 
tluinder  storms  which  abound  there,  followed  by  an 
exquisite  rainbow.  As  they  walked,  the  sun  set  in  a 
dazzling  glory  of  purple  and  crimson  clouds,  that 
flooded  the  hills  with  the  most  exquisite  hues,  and 
bathed  the  green  slope  at  hand  in  a  mellow  light, 
while  the  river  lay  as  it  were  a  soft,  translucent  min- 
gling of  opaline  tints  of  rose  and  pale  green  and 
softest  purple.  It  was  a  picture  that  would  not  be 
soon  forgotten.  * 

"  Well,  Miss  Marjorie,  isn't  this  grand  ? "  said  a 
well-known  voice.     Marjorie  started  and  turned  round. 

"  Why,  Professor  Duncan  !  Where  did  you  come 
from?  Father  dear,  this  is  Professor  Duncan.  Pm 
so  glad !  " 

And  when  they  had  taken  breath  after  the  greeting, 
the  professor  told  them  that  he  was  going  to  take  a 
sail  up  the  Saguenay,  and  had  stopped  on  the  way  to 
see  them  all  and  try  to  secure  a  traveling  companion 
for  his  trip. 

He  and  Mr.  Fleming  very  soon  renewed  their  old 
acquaintance,  and  it  was  soon  arranged  that  when  the 
next  boat  came  down,  Mrs.  Ramsay,  Marion  and  Mar- 
jorie, with  Mr.  Fleming  and  Gerald,  should  accompany 
Professor  Duncan  on  this  charming  expedition. 

The  summer  dusk  was  just  closing  in  as  they 
rounded  the  rocky  point  of  Tadousac,  and  saw  the 


AMONG   THE    HILLS. 


37.i 


village  nestling  among  the  crags  and  stunted  firs,  where, 
as  Professor  Duncan  reminded  them,  the  very  first 
little  settlement  had  been  perched  when  the  fur- 
traders  had  their  headquarters  there  for  traffic  with 
the  Indians,  who  brought  their  furs  down  the  gloomy 
Saguenay. 

They  went  ashore  to  see  the  little  ancient  church 
which  had  so  long  stood  like  a  tiny  "light  in  the 
surrounding  darkness  "  of  savagery  and  heathenism, 
and  watched  the  lights  of  the  village  as  they  left  it, 
seeming  a  type  of  the  part  which  the  little  church 
had  played  so  long. 

They  remained  up  till  midnight  to  see  Cape  Trin- 
ity and  Eternity  by  moonlight,  looking  like  great 
Titanic  shadows  looming  over  the  blackness  of  the 
stream.  In  the  early  morning  they  went  ashore  at 
Ha  Ha  Bay,  and  went  to  hear  the  early  mass  in 
the  village  church,  where  a  devout  congi'egation  of  the 
country  folk  was  assembled. 

They  had  a  delightful  day  on  the  wild  river,  with 
its  endless  ranges  of  stern  cliffs  and  wooded  gorges, 
the  little  villages  perched  on  craggy  ledges,  the  weird 
majesty  of  Cape  Trinity  and  Cape  Eternity,  with  their 
dizzy  height  and  weather-scarred  precipices.  They 
passed  Tadousac  again  in  the  "gloaming,"  and  were 
almost  relieved  to  get  out  of  the  gloomy  shadows  of 
the  Saguenay  and  out  on  the  broad  St.  Lawrence. 

It  was  very  late  —  about  three  in  the  August  morn- 


374 


AMONG   THE    HILLS. 


ing,  for  they  had  been  delayed  by  the  tide  —  when  the 
steamer  approached  Miirrpy  Bay.  They  had  all  been 
walking  up  and  down  the  deck,  and  Mr.  Fleming  and 
Professor  Duncan  had  been  talking  of  the  old  days, 
and  how  truly  the  "  lights  "  which  the  brave  pioneers 
had  carried  into  these  savage  wilds,  had  been  "  lights  in 
the  darkness  "  ;  even  like  those  soft  auroral  streamers 
which  they  had  been  watching  in  the  northern  hori- 
zon ;  for  in  that  north  latitude  it  is  often  pretty  cold 
even  in  August. 

They  talked,  too,  of  the  darkness  that  shrouds  so 
large  a  portion  even  of  our  great  cities,  and  how  many  a 
quiet,  steady  light  is  needed  to  shine  there,  too,  as 
"lights  in  the  darkness."  Marjorie  listened  to  the 
conversation,  feeling  that  as  she  must  soon  be  leav- 
ing all  these  pleasant  scenes,  and  be  returning  to 
the  old  life,  which  now  did  seem  just  a  little  lonely, 
there  would  always  be  this  noble  ideal  and  aspira- 
tion, worthy  of  any  one's  best  efforts.  Everywhere, 
if  one  tried,  one  could  iudced  be  a  "light  in  the 
darkness." 

"  And  look  there !  "  said  Professor  Duncan.  Away 
to  the  eastward  there  was  a  pale  streak  of  amber 
heralding  the  coming  dawn.  And  now  the  aurora 
lights  began  to  fade  out  of  the  sky  as  it  grew  every 
moment  brighter. 

"  Yes,"  said  Mr.  Fleming ;  "  it  makes  me  think  of 
the  time  when  '  the  city  shall  have  no  need  of  the  sun. 


AMONG    iHt    HILLS. 


375 


neither  of  the  moon  to  Hhine  in  it '  —  and  '  there 
shall  be  no  night  there.'  The  Northern  Lights  won't 
be  needed  then  ;  bnt  till  then  may  they  continue  faith- 
fully to  shine  on  as  *  Lights  in  the  Darkness  I '  '* 

"  Amen  !  "  said  tlu^  professor. 

And  if  Marjorie  did  not  say  "  Amen  "  aloud,  she 
said  it  in  her  heart. 


